Gramarye
by AnAppleOfDiscord
Summary: Distraught over governmental deceptions from both sides of the pond and concerned with America's well-being and his blossoming magic, England solidifies his role in the boy's life. Sadly, his leisure plans for Beltane's Day go awry when Alfred acts on a hidden agenda and a hinkypunk's directions. Rated T. Sequel to Elferingewort NO PAIRINGS Father Son Fic
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. _Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. Or the_ Newark Liberty International Airport. Or Harry Potter. Or Aqua Globe. Or Pinterest. Or Facebook.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically).

 **AN:** : DDD Welcome Back Friends! And Hellooo Newcomers! This is the THIRD installment of my Kith and Kin Series, and while it would probably behoove you to read my other two fics before this one...if you're willing to run with the bulls, who am I to dissuade you? Hope you all enjoy! : D

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Emotional Baggage**

* * *

 _England leaned against the stone balcony—breathing in the sea mist and longing to feel the swaying of a timber hull and the soothing feeling of waves beneath his feet._

 _He fidgeted with his stiff doublet and the laced sleeves connected to it._

 _He'd been guilted into wearing pluderhose...pansy looking garment that it was. It cost a fortune to import silk from Asia and if he didn't wear it at least once (and prove in public how absurd he looked in it), she'd be upset._

 _Pity that current fashion dictated boots as strictly for riding and he was forced to wear flat shoes instead. From knee to ankle he felt exposed—the hose simply wasn't thick enough to deflect the dropping temperature._

 _He was starting to ponder what the central topic of tonight's long, dull dinner would be. Anecdotes of a fox that was nearly caught? Of the latest French styles? Or perhaps Arthur's private belief that the elite of his land were determined to create the silliest, ugliest, most difficult hat to wear of all hats in the world?_

 _All the world...even...even...the New One…_

 _He was terribly curious about that distant shore. Though Spain boasted of the gold there, England had caught wind of horrific tales of savagery; men drowned in squalls, captured and sacrificed, and sometimes even eaten._

 _To modern ears of the 1580s, it sounded fantastical. To Albion, who's watched humans be ritually strangled and offered to bogs, it sounds-_

 _He straightened certain he'd heard…_

 _No...he slouched...no...it couldn't be..._

 _He tugged at the uncomfortable ruff on his throat. It was over starched and rubbing his Adam's apple raw._

 _But wait…there it came again._

 _Here he was at Scarborough Castle staring out at the sea with the niggling feeling he was facing the wrong way...admiring the light glimmering on the wrong sea._

 _He strained his ears to catch it and resisted the heaviness that came with giving his word._

 _He'd been told he needed a rest..._

 _A queen's ringed hand had rested on his shoulder weeks earlier insisting he needed rest after so much trouble and intrigue._

 _He'd been resistant to leave her side considering all the plots involving her as of late._

 _And because…_

 _Because..._

 _He was...curious…_

 _And bizarrely jealous...that human explorers had been chosen over him to survey the colony._

 _Still, there was supposed to be an artist among them who'd pledged to bring back detailed sketches of what they found._

 _It was small comfort, but comfort nonetheless._

 _If only it lessened the dreams..._

 _Of Mother combing his hair as they sat on the shore. From his messy mane, she plucked what seemed to be a tiny black bead. She held it before him and he'd taken it, shrugged, and flung it. It skipped liked a stone across the water. West._

 _ **A daffodil seed, you fool.**_

 _Arthur sighed. His retreat here was supposed to be relaxing. So why did wrongness coil in his gut?_

 _ **Because you're a fool, but even then you knew something was off.**_

 _There it came again; a high pitched keening so similar to the sound he woke up to each morning after violent dreams that he couldn't decipher. There it was now: faint and ringing and urgent in his ears, but so far away..._

 _ **You're a goddamned fool.**_

 _And Arthur watched himself like a detached, sullen observer. His body deluded into accepting that the crying he sensed coming from the shore of his dreams and in the quiet void of lonely moments was a flock of hungry birds and not a helpless child wailing._

Arthur woke with a start. He ran a hand through his hair and desperately tried to calm himself down.

He looked around and groaned; he'd fallen asleep in his office again while trying to get caught up before his flight later on.

Still, the dull light gray walls did settle him down somewhat.

He wiped away crusts of sleep and lingering tears and finished up filing, stamping, and sending off his paperwork. It seemed like every interaction with the EU was leaving him irritable and exhausted.

His impromptu nap had moved his keyboard and he noticed the corner of a yellow Post-It Note. It had a sloppily drawn Shield Knot in black pen ink scrawled over it.

Last December, Alfred had plastered the area with them when he'd instinctively sensed UnSeelies stalking him.

Arthur had kept this one out of sentimentality for the child's wavering hand and as a sharp rebuke to himself for being so clueless.

He righted the keyboard back over it and looked over at the rosebush perched on his desk. It had grown unsettlingly since Alfred's insistence that it become strong.

In fact, in January when he'd returned, he'd found that the damn thing had taken over the office altogether. He'd choked when he saw its vines creeping out from under the door!

The janitor apologized but he hadn't been able to enter the room, and every time he tried cutting the vines that were growing out of it, they grew stronger and more resistant.

When England finally managed to unlock his office door and force his way in, he'd gaped at a sprawling amount of plant life.

Thankfully, he'd still had Alfred over and the boy was able to tame it. The child had negotiated as he trimmed it down to a suitable size. It was a nuisance replacing all the machinery, though Alfred's knowledge of restoring and transferring hard drive information proved helpful. The printer was beyond saving; the poor thing had been pulled apart.) The plant itself now needed a larger pot (as its roots had grown and it had shattered its previous one).

Still, Alfred also demanded an apology on its behalf—citing multiple times the plant had felt abused (physically and verbally) and unappreciated under Arthur's care.

At the time, he had felt rather humiliated talking to a plant that way during business hours, but Alfred had seemed so vested in it, he played along...said his sorrys...and now...well, he couldn't argue with results.

Being nursed up on Alfred's land magic had made the quietly spiteful thing into a hearty, boasting, vicious thing. But Alfred brokered a mighty truce and it hadn't pricked Arthur since his foray into the office.

Now its sharp, sticking thorns clawed at people Arthur didn't like or did him wrong.

Yes; they were getting along splendidly now.

Considering how deeply it had scratched Carl when he tried to pilfer one of Arthur's fountain pens from his desk, Arthur might go so far as to admit he was fond of it.

Arthur had gone ahead and bought a higher grade glass Aqua Globe which dispersed water at suitable times. He also let it listen to Radiohead on Wednesdays...because Alfred insisted Prickly the Plant enjoyed it.

And if Prickly kept up the good work, Prickly got rewarded.

With bleary eyes, he read his watch and stiffened.

Blast! He had to hurry, if he was going to grab his suitcase and catch his flight.

* * *

Arthur sighed as he drummed his fingers on the chair arm. He gripped it tightly as the plane entered turbulence.

"Should I just surrender the arm of my chair to you?" Rhys asked from his spot, in the dreaded middle seat of their aisle. He was already seated beside a large woman whose... bulk...floweth over onto his right chair arm...and Arthur had seized the left.

Arthur pried his hand away and Rhys rested his elbow again.

If it hadn't been bad enough to enter his house and find his brother there washing dishes and sporting a grim, displeased expression as he stated: " _You didn't come home last night, brawd bach."_

It was worse to hear afterward, " _I'm coming with you to the meeting."_

When he tried to argue that he'd already booked his flight and all was set in stone (so sorry, not really), his brother remarked that he'd changed it and that Arthur shouldn't use Harry Potter references for so many of his passwords.

Arthur then endured a frightfully awkward Uber ride over to the airport where Rhys...

 _Rhys_... **Rhys** of all people...asked if he'd consider seeing a therapist.

" _You're having nightmares. Your aura is clouded. You look awful. Alfred needs you at your strongest...this isn't it."_

Arthur did NOT need counseling. That was ridiculous. Granted, he was having some difficulties…yes...lately...but...that was perfectly normal.

Considering everything he'd been through, he'd have to be sociopathic not to have some emotional baggage as a result.

Wendigo...Osha...Yamasee...bloody UnSeelies...that awful car accident...Alfred's poor eye...Eliza-everything!

Everything…

He just needed time to decompress.

He'd be alright. He had to be.

And now they were seated in Coach because Rhys was too thrifty for First Class (Arthur blamed Alistair's influence on that) and they were an hour behind, which made Arthur nervous. He'd sent texts about the change, but hadn't received a reply.

He relaxed once he was off the bloody plane and pushing past people on the escalator. He ignored the squawks and curses. As he rolled his luggage across the polished ground floor of the Newark Liberty International Airport, he hunted for his child.

Missed him.

Missed him with an aching intensity that should've been embarrassing considering they'd barely spent two weeks apart.

But after everything...after that estrangement...after finally having Alfred back post-spellbreak! He was truly back!

There was a warmth now present in him that had been long absent. The winter in him was thawing. There was a tenderness unfurling like fresh new leaves; life after a long hibernation.

It felt good to hold him, and play with him, and care for him. When Arthur's arms were full, his mind was focused, and he could ignore all else.

He frowned when he didn't see a small blond and a star spangled suitcase. His son was supposed to be waiting for him here. They'd get a bite to eat (likely at the onsite steakhouse) and then wait an hour or two to board their flight to Toronto for Mathieu's informal Valentine's Day themed meeting.

"I don't sense him," Rhys frowned when he caught up.

Arthur swallowed down anxiety and turned his phone back on. A whoosh of air left him as he immediately received a pending text from Alfred from several hours earlier.

 _Sorry Dad. I had a change of plans 2. Sorry. Talk more l8r._

For a full beat, Arthur stared at it and then abruptly dialed his son's number. He knew Alfred was still self-conscious about his eye, but he wasn't going to let the boy wallow.

He was a handsome child inside and out, and dammit Arthur wasn't going to let him think otherwise! If Russia did say something disparaging, so help him...

" _H-hi..."_ Alfred answered after two rings. " _I'm real sorr-"_

"Where are you?" It came out harsher than he intended and he winced.

Rhys raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

Arthur sighed; an eight-hour flight with ill-behaved children, negligent parents, and a sugary insincere flight attendant who labeled him a 'child-hater' to the crew and passengers after making a complaint, made his fuse terribly short.

Plus, there was Rhys. Arthur was simply doomed.

There was a shaky breath on the other end. Damnation, Alfred was more sensitive now and he needed to attune himself to it.

Before he could apologize, Alfred replied: " _I...decided...not to go...for personal reasons. I...I have other stuff- important stuff! I gotta put in order."_

"Are you in Virginia?" He demanded.

" _N-no, I'm still in New York, right now."_

"In your flat?"

" _Yeah, but-"_

"I'm coming, if we hurry we can still catch the flight to Toronto."

" _This is bigger than that-"_

"We're going!" He hung up.

Those boys and their feud…it was getting completely out of hand. First, Mathieu was making wild insinuations that Arthur and Alfred had...crowded him out. The last few emails Arthur had received were less than positive. Goodness, what a time for teenage angst to set in.

Meanwhile, Alfred was upset that his brother didn't comment on their Pirate Party, his missing eye, or his 'kicking ass at UnSeelie obstacles.' Alfred labeled it passive-aggressive-pervasive-Canadian-grouchiness.

Though Alfred's manner of revenge...

" _I'm not_ _ **Liking**_ _his Maple posts til he fixes it!"_

...wasn't awfully concerning….

But it did signify that Alfred was aware that he was involved in a conflict. Which was something, considering how oblivious the child could be to reading the atmosphere.

Still, given their own reconciliation recently, Arthur was confident that, given the proper time and place and encouragement, Alfred would make amends...if he wasn't allowed to distance himself. He had an uncanny habit of wandering away from what he couldn't deal with.

But Mathieu had to be equally willing for them to make progress.

Arthur needed it to unfold in a safe space; one where he could intervene if necessary.

Mathieu wasn't usually a loose cannon; he likely had a good reason to be upset, but until Arthur learned what it was precisely…and how to engage it without escalating it…

He couldn't leave them to solve it themselves. He had to be present. To shield Alfred. Alfred wasn't emotionally mature enough to handle a teenager's wrath, especially when he'd done so little to invite it on himself.

God, just thinking of him dealing with Arthur's own intense feelings, spanning from the 1770s until recently, made him feel sick.

Alfred had said it clearly back in December: " _I just thought you didn't love me anymore."_

All of Arthur's complicated, grudge-holding, affection-resistant behavior wasn't interpreted as deep-seated hurt, a sense of being betrayed, and a desire for Alfred's remorse for his part in their estrangement.

Instead, to a childish mind, raised on Silly Infant Rhymes, Arthurian Legend, the Enlightenment, and his founding fathers' philosophies and ensuing legal documents…it was black and white.

One minute he was loved, and the next...he wasn't.

And he'd had to write off Arthur and all his love, and all his support, and all their memories in one fell swoop.

Which had done...damaging things to him, the extent of which Arthur was still discovering through off-hand comments and blank stares when they tripped over certain topics.

At least Alfred's concept of love being a lasting thing was taking root, Arthur wasn't convinced it was well-settled, but he was leaps and bounds from where he had been.

Arthur was hesitantly hopeful that the Valentine's Holiday would open them up. Arthur had two identical boxes of sweets being delivered since Mathieu seemed to feel that Arthur wasn't treating the two boys equally. Whatever the hell that meant.

It had angered him reading that on a glowing computer screen at 2am, because how could he? When he'd cared for them at very different times, with very different resources, and different parenting skills in place.

 _Trust me, Mathieu_ , he'd thought bitterly. _The caregiver I was from the 1760s on, was far superior to the 1650s version that Alfred got._ He'd actually suffered a lot of guilt over that—pinning it as one of the grand reasons why they clashed so much. England had been immature, self-centered, arrogant, and dismissive. He'd gravely underestimated the child's intelligence, resourcefulness, determination, and stubborn pride. And how closely America observed him...goodness...he knew how Arthur folded laundry, arranged his night stand before bed, organized his pantry…

He was now rather suspicious that a 1700s Alfred, had read through Arthur's paperwork and raided his office library on a regular basis. He'd occasionally catch him as a child with huge tomes and assume he was "pretending" to impress Arthur or tease Canada. If Arthur had just asked him to discuss the passage on legal statutes, he'd have known then.

Even with Arthur's parenting taken out of the equation, they were very different boys with differing attitudes and values. Not to mention they were now twelve bloody years apart!

But by God, if Mathieu wanted to share his bed, play dolls with him, and have bubblegum blowing contests. By all means, be his guest!

He probably shouldn't have sent that, but he'd had one whiskey too many that night and his temper snapped.

There'd been cyber silence from the Canadian since. Arthur's next-day apology email hadn't garnered a response.

"So we're going to fetch Alfred and then return to the airport, correct?" Rhys inquired.

Arthur nodded tiredly.

Following a taxi ride that smelled of greasy three-day-old fast food casings, he arrived at the high rise flat.

Only the elevator was being serviced, so they had to walk a ridiculous amount of stairs. By the time Arthur reached Alfred's floor his poor mood had devolved into downright foul.

Especially when he remembered that he didn't have a key there.

He gave a hard knock and was surprised when Alfred immediately opened it—face pale and withdrawn. His recovering eye was a stark white while the other was bloodshot.

"Are you ill?" Arthur asked in concern. Was it a sudden onset of flu? Or food poisoning? Or worse?

Alfred wiped his runny nose on his sleeve.

Arthur fished out a handkerchief for him.

"T-thanks," his little voice cracked. "H-hey Rhys."

"Hello," Rhys greeted as he hastily shut the door behind them and set his and Arthur's luggage hard against the wall. Arthur had forgotten all about it when the door had opened. Alfred's suitcase was standing at the ready just several feet over.

So he was packed for the trip.

Alfred sniffled again.

What in the world was going on?

Arthur rushed the child over to the leather sofa, "Did something bad happen? Did Americat get diabetes? Did you get a fine of some sort? Is it a national issue? Local? Did you witness something unsavory? My dear boy, what's wrong?"

Besides the room's decorations.

Again Arthur noticed dysfunction; modern art on the walls, sleek furniture pieces, discordant Old World touches here and there, more books on the ground instead of bookcases, and a pile of old cartridge style video game systems piled high beside the entertainment center.

"..."

While they sat together, Arthur patted the child's hand gently—discouraging the fingers from picking at a loose bit of cuticle.

Rhys took that moment to sit down on Alfred's other side. When the cushions bounced in response to the movement, the child broke his silence.

"I just...I got really bad news and...then it got worse," Alfred seemed poised on the edge of a breakdown.

Unfortunately, it was difficult to gauge terrible on the boy's spectrum. It could range from having a favorite anime series canceled from a television lineup to a cataclysmic fallout resulting from supernatural intrusion.

"Just now?" Arthur asked.

"Yeah. Or...well...s-since I texted you. It all happened so fast!"

"W-what did, sweet?" C'mon boy, spit it out.

"I….I...I-I'm dying!" The American blurted.

Rhys stared aghast.

Arthur's heart stopped and he forced in a steadying breath as all his hopes fractured.

He and Rhys shared a glance.

His brother mouthed, 'Cancer?"

Had to be. He must've gotten diagnosed with cancer. The boy had complained about his most recent checkup being lots of you need to 'do this' or 'do that.'

Was it a result of radiation? From years of meddling with nuclear elements?

"It's terrible…" Alfred's breath hitched.

Rhys spoke up, "No, we've medical advances now. If you've a tumor, they can operate-they _can._ And we'll be there with you every step-"

"It's not like that!"

"It's inoperable? Are you certain?"

"It's a nation thing!" America declared.

That made Arthur's soul shudder.

Nononononono, the universe couldn't do this to him. America had partaken in Yule. His magic was replenished.

"I-I'm...falling apart," America choked out.

England abruptly pulled the child into his lap and systematically checked fingers and toes. He pulled off the trainers. The socks.

Toes were the first things to go.

Mother had started losing toes in the early phase of returning to the land. He recalled playing on the floor beside her deteriorating feet.

But...Arthur blinked at the soft, squishy pink toes. Alfred had all ten. All in perfect order. The nails were in need of a trim, but that could be easily remedied.

Same with the fingers. All accounted for. Just the nails were a little overgrown.

"It's not there," the child mumbled.

"Where is it then?" Rhys demanded as he moved closer.

Alfred opened his mouth and moved an index finger in; it rested on a lower tooth and wiggled until the tooth fell almost completely sidewise.

Arthur blinked.

A loose tooth.

He blinked again and frowned.

Nearly killed his father with despair...over a loose tooth.

He looked over at Rhys.

The Welshman's face had puckered up. He was giving his all to try and maintain a serious expression, so as not to injure Alfred's dignity.

Alfred wrapped his arms around his father's neck and blubbered, "And we were finally going to be happy again! I had such plans...alas..."

So melodramatic; it meant the boy was watching all manner of trashy soap operas and ill-suited movies and entertainment channels.

Arthur was going to need to have Rhys set a strong parental block on all of Alfred's devices. It wouldn't hurt if Arthur weeded out some of his books by "borrowing" them. Alfred had an unopened edition of _Girl with the Dragon Tattoo_. The boy wanted to read the book before he watched the movie. Arthur needed to nix all of that from happening, but he had to do it stealthily.

"It's such a cruel fate that begets nihilistic wonderings that I-"

Arthur blinked, "I think we may need to curb some of the literature you're taking in."

Nihilism was not a theme that needed to be floating around Alfred's brain at this time.

Poor child was starting to hyperventilate.

"Breathe, Alfred. Breathe. Take a breath."

The boy pulled back when he seemed to realize Arthur's sense of urgency had flagged considerably.

"D-don't you care?!" he wailed. "This is super scary. Daddy, I dunno what to do! What if they all fall out and I'll have to eat mush! And then my jaw might fall off next and-"

It was the heartfelt sincerity in that heartbroken tone, and the real horror in his face, and the way it rang through their bond that sobered Arthur and softened him.

He cupped the child's face gently as he murmured knowingly, "You've never had this happen."

"I've had them loosen when people punch me or strike me in the face, but they always tightened back down. I've never-I've never-this-and it happened unprovoked! I mean...yeah, it was kinda loose last week or so but...TODAY! My tongue just touched it and it-it-"

"It's perfectly normal," Rhys assured.

"Have either of _you_ had this happen?" the child demanded.

Rhys couldn't hold in a snort.

Arthur smiled kindly. "Why yes, as a matter of fact we have...Once upon a time, a time very, very long ago...for some of us longer…" He looked at his brother. "We, too, lost our milk teeth."

Alfred stared, jaw open, his melodramatic wind stolen from his sails. "Like...a human?"

"Yes, darlingheart. We share this in common with them."

"But-but-but I've never heard of...no one talks about….I never heard Mattie talk about...or Texas or Molossia!"

"Did you ask them?"

He shook his head. "You're the only ones who know."

"I see," Arthur frowned, "You've spent several hours tormenting yourself about your impending 'death' without consulting anyone on the matter?"

"You were on a plane. Tex is overseas on business. I didn't wanna get him antsy. And Hawaii's got a fundraiser going and Alaska's busy too. I didn't think Molossia could take bad news like that."

"You should've called your uncles!" Arthur insisted.

"Oh…" He scratched an ear.

"Reilley and Alistair might've been arses about it. But they wouldn't have misled you," Arthur replied. "Ah well, I'm glad we could clear that up for you. I daresay Fiacaill, or Fifi as we tend to call her, has been waiting a long time to collect on _**you**_ , lad."

"Who?"

"The tooth fairy," Rhys explained. "She usually visits our kind sporadically, but she takes special care to attend the first and last-"

Alfred gulped, "O. M. G. _**what**_!?"

Arthur frowned at the unusual reaction and then realized, "Blast your horror movies-"

"Don't even! Even without the stage makeup, she's waaay creepier than Santa Clause. He stays where the chimney's at. This fairy entity breaks into your bedchamber and reaches under your pillow WHILE you are sleeping. That's hella shady."

"Alright." Arthur moved the child from his lap back onto the couch. "Now that the fear has passed, get yourself together. Use the loo, wash your hands, double-knot your trainers, and we'll-"

Alfred sulked and crossed his arms.

"Use. The. Loo," Arthur repeated. "I know you; we'll get into the car and I'll have you all nice and buckled in your booster and we'll pass two blocks and then you'll need to go and spend a penny. Right then. Right when there's traffic-"

"I-I didn't just freak out for no reason, you know?" Alfred muttered. "It wasn't just the tooth. I just...I assumed they were connected."

He motioned to a letter on the coffee table.

"It was waiting for me here," the boy hesitated and then started to hand the piece of paper over, then stopped, and then succeeded.

Arthur unfolded it curiously.

 _General Alfred F. Jones,_

 _We regret to inform you that your reenlistment has been denied on grounds of child endangerment and child labor laws (as cited below). Failure to abide by these legal statutes would result in a gross violation of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, as recognized and abided by the United States of-_

When Arthur finished it, he folded it back up.

"May I read it?" Rhys asked.

Alfred sucked in a breath and nodded.

A mixture of relief and sorrow flooded through England. Relief, that his child wouldn't be deployed in such a vulnerable state. Sorrow, that it was handled in such a bloody, impersonal fashion.

He laced his fingers. "I'm very sorry, Alfred. That must've been a very difficult blow."

"I read that...and then my tooth just...I thought it was cuz they rejected me!"

Arthur pulled him into another embrace and tucked his head under his chin.

"It hurts," the child breathed.

Arthur held him tighter and nodded.

"It's embarrassing."

"Why?" Arthur asked softly.

"I-I told you," He rasped. "They're sending me away."

"Now I didn't get that impression at all. They don't want you in combat, true. But there was nothing about impeding you from acting as an ambassador and diplomat. You are _**still**_ the acting representative of your nation."

"But I don't get to fight anymore. I'll be a paper pusher." His voice cracked.

"There is nothing dishonorable about clerical work. As of late, much of my duties involve-"

"I've been discharged."

" _ **Honorably**_ discharged," Rhys remarked as he set the letter down on the table.

"I haven't been discharged since..." His hand hovered over his injured eye.

Rhys's brows furrowed. "I do hope you're exaggerating. If not, you're well within your rights to sue and I can suggest several attorneys-"

"They don't want me anymore…" Alfred whispered.

It was no use; England was going to have to bring up King Richard II and a slew of other monarchs who saw fit to cut England loose when their goals clashed. Though...if Arthur were honest, they'd be heavily edited retellings.

He was finally regaining his boy's trust. He didn't want to sully that with messy tales of deposement. He'd just share the beginnings of those sagas where England was the one clearly wronged and in need of finding somewhere else to apply himself. That was something America could relate to. He didn't need to hear about England's vengeance on those cretins.

* * *

Arthur indulged in a glass of white wine and tapped his fingers rhythmically. It was a short flight, maybe an hour and a half, but by God he was going to enjoy it to its fullest.

It was a relief that Rhys hadn't meddled with the second half of his flight plans.

When he'd said as much out of the corner of his mouth, Rhys had frowned. " _I wouldn't want Alfred to sit alone."_

Arthur had scoffed back, " _You couldn't crack his codes."_

Rhys's lips twitched in amusement. He remained seated as the First Class passengers were boarded.

Arthur was trying to enjoy the upgraded seat cushions when his sleeve was tugged.

Alfred was chewing gum, listening to music with one earbud in his ear, and attracting curious looks with the jeweled eyepatch he was wearing.

He'd confided earlier, " _It doesn't feel so bad if they're staring at me on my terms._ "

Arthur blinked hard. If he could've moved faster...maybe...blocked the strike somehow...there'd be two bonnie blue eyes gazing up at him.

"Dad?" Alfred tugged at him again.

"Yes?" Arthur answered wearily.

"Are you okay?"

Arthur stiffened, "O-of course, why do you ask?"

"Your suit's all wrinkly and your face is-" He reached a bold hand up. "-bristle-y."

Arthur gently pushed the hand away.

"Late start," he answered shortly.

The little hand hovered in midair a moment before laying itself lightly on Arthur's hand, "...I...I'm sorry I freaked out earlier."

Arthur sandwiched the hand between his, "No, you don't need to be sorry. You didn't know. I'm glad you asked. And I'm sorry you received such terrible news alone."

The child nodded, "It kinda casts a shadow over everything...and I was looking forward to Valentine's Day snacks, too."

Arthur tapped the little nose, "As you should. There should be quite a feast of red and pink confections. Francis put up...er wait uh. Whatsit? Er ' _Pinned_ ' several desserts he was interested in making."

That ought to have piqued the American's interest into a new direction. It didn't.

"...What if somebody brings it up? What if they know-"

"Why should they?" The last thing they needed was America feeling paranoid. He made questionable decisions under duress.

"Cuz everybody's spying on everybody," Alfred remarked pointedly.

"We deal with it _then_ at that moment."

"But-"

"It's no good tormenting yourself over what-ifs," Arthur stated firmly.

"Hmm," Alfred pulled his hand away to grab at his Captain America knapsack. He pulled the garish, beat up thing (It was missing a strap and had scratches across it from being roughly handled by Grym) into his lap to liberate Hop before letting it slip back down.

Alfred hugged the stuffed animal tightly.

Arthur held in a sigh; the toy was in poor shape. The fabric was giving way to holes and old yellowing cotton was leaking from Hop's face.

While Alfred had stayed over in January, they'd found a nice green ribbon to tie on Hop. Sadly, the new satin of the bow made the rabbit look even shabbier.

He was just too old to be put back into an active line of duty as a vigorous child's companion. Two months in, after more than a century of aging in storage, and he was wearing out. Closed boxes couldn't seal off time's ravages indefinitely. Could only delay them and halfheartedly at that.

And while it still touched Arthur to have something he'd made be so clearly cherished—Arthur knew Hop's time on this Earth was ending.

He'd need to set to work crafting Hop the II. Perhaps, if he made it identical...except...he wasn't entirely sure he could. His early sewing venture had resulted in certain peculiarities that made Hop unique. Certain limbs were slightly larger or smaller than their twin. One ear was fixed at a jauntier angle. And the stitches, Good Lord, the stitches. So erratic.

He reached across the boy to pull the shade down. He just wanted to rest.

Arthur raised up the chair arm so Alfred could lean against him. One flight attendant whisked his empty glass away, while another offered them blankets.

Arthur then reclined his seat and motioned for Alfred to do the same with his.

"It's going to be alright," he assured the little one as he squeezed him close.

Alfred nodded, turned his iPod off, and snuggled against him—seemingly content to believe him.

Now, if only Arthur could convince himself.

* * *

Read & Review Please : DDD


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or Elf the movie. Or the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. Or Pinterest. Or Toca the Italian Restaurant. Or Marvel. Or Disney's Buzz Lightyear merchandise.

 **Warning:** Some profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). To someone of another culture/country/ethnicity you and yours look identical. Medieval toilets. Indo European Languages vs. Non Indo European Languages. Some angst! Canada vs. America. Anxiety attack. Some fluff.

 **AN:** Hey! Glad to see so many back for this fic! Thank you for your reviews! I love seeing what you guys have to say : D

* * *

 **Chapter 2: Like A Bloody Lobster**

* * *

Alfred felt sweat drip down the back of his shirt, beneath the layers, as he felt a great many eyes burn through him.

He swallowed and flashed them a smile before he turned back to his parent.

"Hey Dad?" He gave the man's shoulder a harder shake.

Nothing.

"Daaaaad?" He increased his voice to a high, nasally pitch that tended to irritate the old man during G8 meetings.

It didn't disappoint.

Arthur frowned and cracked open an eye.

"H-hey!" Alfred chirped.

"Wot?" the Briton grumbled.

Alfred kept a grin plastered across his face. "It's uh...time to go."

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. "What?"

Alfred flashed another nervous grin as the flight attendants formed a ring around them.

Arthur stretched, looked up, and then turned beet red as he realized the plane was devoid of passengers save them.

The Englishman practically tripped over himself in order to leave.

"Why didn't you wake me before half the bloody crew was there?" he hissed when they were finally walking down the jet way.

Alfred huffed back, "I'd been trying since forever. You wouldn't rise and shine! And I was afraid they'd freak if they saw me carry you out."

"I must've looked like such a fool!"

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "You mean like me three hours ago, thinking I was dying cuz of a stupid tooth?"

"That was...an entirely different matter."

"You were just tired," Alfred reasoned as he thought: _I was delusional._ God, he could be so dumb sometimes.

Arthur didn't comment.

"H-hey, um...are you having trouble sleeping?" Alfred asked. It was kinda something he wanted to broach. A while back his Dad had been gung-ho about Dream Journals...and America went ahead and bought a Marvel one.

"..."

Alfred fidgeted with his sleeves as he sensed a literal and metaphorical chill. "I-I'm still...having...some...sometimes...I have these dreams and I'm like ' _No. Stop. Please._ ' And then I wake up and I have to check the whole bed to make sure there are no restraints and no monsters…"

Arthur's free hand found his.

He wished he had a way to tell him that he totally got what Arthur was going through. That he'd been and...well... _ **was**_ going through the same exact thing! And it was hard having a chink in your armor.

If only he knew what Arthur's deal was...exactly...but the Old Man was keeping quiet and Alfred's uncles were covering for him too.

Uncle Reilley had shrugged it off and tried to tell him it was the simple result of a mushroom phobia that the elferingewort had created. Only the next time he called him for more clarity about it, the Irishman didn't know what he was going on about and said Arthur's troubles were a matter of indigestion; an allergy to gnome dander. It was the third call, where Reilley went off into a detailed explanation of Arthur's deep seated childhood fear of grass and how it was everywhere and he felt surrounded that Alfred realized he was being had and hung up.

Uncle Rhys went the It's-Arthur's-Choice-To-Tell-You-Or-Not Route and gave some mountain top guru advice about respect using Welsh proverbs that usually involved sheep and why don't you ask me something else?

Uncle Al was direct: ' _Yeh keep yer nose out of it, or I'll tan your hide. Gawd, I swear yeh, jus' go lookin' fer trouble. I'll give yeh summat, if yeh don't watch it.'_

He just wanted to help Arthur shake it off somehow.

He'd tentatively emailed Olivia to see if Arthur had ever chosen a birthday, but she said he hadn't. When she'd inquired why he was asking, he'd thrown caution to the wind and admitted that he just wanted to do something nice for the old man cuz he'd done so much for him lately. She was surprisingly helpful and straightforward after that and their one-line emails exploded like the Big Bang with ideas for June. It turned out that the Commonwealth usually made a big deal out of Father's Day.

He'd even ended up sending " _I wish I'd known_ " without thinking how stupidly vulnerable that sounded. But he got back, " _We should have told you._ "

And now they were recipe buddies on Pinterest.

She was still a bossy-know-it-all, but somehow it didn't seem to... _sting_ anymore.

Alfred tripped as some suit darted in front of him.

"You watch where you're going!" Arthur growled after the businessman and the dude power-walked to get out of his line of sight. "Are you alright? He didn't step on you, did he?"

Rhys was waiting for them down at the baggage claim with their luggage.

"Yours is easy to spot," Rhys remarked—eyeing the red, white, and blue. He tapped one of the jingle bells Alfred had zip tied to a zipper.

The American grinned and explained, "See? And it works, doesn't it? If you just own or are dressed weird, you get to BE the one who's found. You just pick a spot and sit there and they'll find you. No energy needed on your part."

"You do that, don't you?" his uncle murmured.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to find Kiku at a Tokyo airport?"

"As hard as it is to find you at one of yours?" Rhys arched an eyebrow.

" _ **Exactly!**_ Which is why I wear highlighter colors in both cases!" Alfred answered triumphantly with his hands on his hips.

"Alright," Arthur began briskly. "Now, we'll need to find a taxi large enough that I can set the booster seat in correctly."

Trust Arthur to bring a larger suitcase just to tote Alfred's stupid booster seat. He couldn't believe the old man crossed the Atlantic with it.

When Arthur shrewdly deducted that Alfred hadn't packed one, Alfred lied that he "used the bus" to get to the airport and had planned to make use of public transit.

It was waaay better than "I bribed the taxi driver."

* * *

Arthur was still feeling the last vestiges of mortification ebb. Sadly, it was being replaced with annoyance.

His son was pouting.

Alfred frowned at all the cubic designs and modern lines of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel.

"What is it now?" Arthur demanded.

Alfred stuck his gloves into a pocket of his heavy snow jacket and complained, "Why don't we get to stay at the Chelsea Hotel? There's a water slide!"

Rhys turned the page of a book he'd bought at the airport, "It's 7 degrees."

"...there's arcade stuff," he argued.

England supposed he ought to feel relieved that petty concerns about gaming were back on America's mind; it was proof that America had made a complete recovery from his earlier shock.

However…

Arthur's eyebrows twitched.

"This hotel is lovely, you'll get along fine without your silly games for one weekend. Be good," Arthur barked lowly.

"Bonjour!" Francis called out as he descended the stairs with Mathieu. "Amérique! Angleterre!"

Arthur's mood plummeted. Did the Frenchman _**have**_ to be the one to greet them?

Francis gave Arthur a wide lascivious smile, rattled something off in French before his gaze slid over and he broke off with a gasp. He rushed down the final steps and over to them.

"Zut alors! Qu'est-ce que c'est? Mon petit!" Francis cried as he cupped Alfred's face and inspected the eyepatch.

Guilt twisted Arthur's gut. Alfred might've bemoaned the injury as a matter of vanity and the consequence of impulsivity. But for Arthur…

For Arthur…

It was inarguable proof that he'd failed in his duties as a protector.

"What happened?!" Francis demanded in that lower, gruffer tone that reminded Arthur of the Hundred Years War.

It wasn't one he usually used around the children and it showed: Mathieu's eyes widened and Alfred was trying to slink away from the tight grip.

Francis repeated himself.

"For God's sake, let him go, you dolt." Arthur reached over and wrenched the Frog's hand's away from his child's face. "You're making him nervous."

France's blue eyes looked sad at that. "I am concerned."

"Accident," Rhys remarked shortly.

Francis blinked and then gave a sideways smile, "Pays de Galle?! You've left your house, you hermit. Salut, ça va?

Rhys stared, turned another page, and sighed, "Ça va."

Mathieu seemed stunned that Rhys was there and looked away as he mentioned, "I...I wasn't expecting you."

Mathieu clutched the brown wicker basket he was holding more tightly.

"I'll board with Arthur," the Welshman stated.

Arthur's eyebrow twitched. Great. He had that to look forward to.

Canada nodded. He reached into the basket and handed England and America a plastic keycard, an itinerary for tomorrow's events, and a small cellophane goodie bag with a large heart-shaped biscuit inside.

"Alright," Mathieu began—gesturing to the staircase. "I'll show you to your rooms so you can get settled. I know you and Rhys had a long flight. I'm sure if you call the concierge desk they can supply you with an additional rollaway bed."

"Yes," Arthur agreed distractedly as he looked over the goodie bag. That biscuit; nearly the size of his hand and frosted pink with chocolate drizzled across it. There were even heart-shaped sprinkles and-Ugh. He'd let Alfred have it; the boy was much more interested in the sweet.

America had immediately unwrapped his and began nibbling at it as they climbed the stairs.

Mathieu's eye twitched a bit, but he didn't comment.

Yes, Alfred probably should've waited until they were in their room and the crumbs he was making could collect in one easy-to-clean spot for housekeeping to tackle. And now the poor souls would have to contend with a hard-to-vacuum trail, but Alfred was a child. One had to make allowances for things like that.

He could see Mathieu weighing out on whether to comment on it. Arthur caught the boy's eye and gave a warning glare.

It would ruin the flavor of that treat and the boy's hero complex would activate. He'd feel bad; Arthur could envision it now: Alfred trying to pick the crumbs up by himself...piece by piece with his fingers.

Mathieu frowned.

Arthur sighed.

France watched with interest.

Rhys and Alfred discussed pigeons.

"How can you not like pigeons?" Rhys frowned. "They're rather smart, and you can teach them to carry messages. A message received after sunset by a faithful pigeon can turn the tide of a battle-"

"They're loud, they molt, they're gluttons, and they poop. They poop everywhere. And they live everywhere. So everywhere gets trashed—"

Arthur's knees popped on the third flight of stairs.

"What's wrong Angleterre? Not getting old I hope?" Francis teased.

Bastard.

"Hey, we could've used the elevator!" Alfred squawked—lips and tongue unnaturally pinkened by his treat.

"I think we all lived in fear that you'd copy Buddy the Elf and press all the buttons," Rhys muttered.

Alfred frowned at his uncle and then smirked. "You've done it."

Rhys turned a surprising shade of red. The adults of the group stared at the Welshman and he turned a deeper crimson.

"You've totally done it!" Alfred crowed.

"Shush, Alfred, There could be business workers sleeping."

Alfred sidled up to Rhys. "I've done it too. It's fun to press the buttons and see them light up. Especially, when you're headed into a really boring meeting."

Mathieu cleared his throat. "So this is your room, Arthur. Alfred, yours is a few doors down on the right."

Arthur frowned as Alfred rolled his luggage down to his assigned room...which was six rooms down and on the opposite side of the hall.

"Mathieu and I will be down at the hotel restaurant, _Toca_ , at 7, if you care to join," Francis offered.

"Yes, I think we will," Arthur replied as Rhys plucked the key from his hand to open and enter the room.

Arthur caught the door before it could swing shut and lingered in the hall.

Mathieu and Francis made their way back down to the lobby to greet and direct additional members of their party.

Once they were gone, Alfred heaved a sigh. He looked down at his room key, up at the room's number, and then longingly over to where Arthur's room was.

The blue eye widened and his cheeks pinked when he realized Arthur was still there.

Arthur held the door open wider and motioned with his head for Alfred to head inside.

The boy rushed over, the silly baubles on his suitcase jangling.

Trying to separate them like that...Arthur's temper bubbled. He doubted it was even legal for Alfred to be alone.

* * *

Arthur swallowed a deep drink of water as the other members of his party made their orders to the waiter.

It was a nice restaurant; highline with an elegant, sophisticated atmosphere and an impressive wine selection he planned to sample.

Unfortunately, it wasn't a good fit for Alfred. The boy was struggling with the Italian Menu and its vague English captions. He should've just accepted the Children's Menu, but had glared when the seater tried to offer it.

Arthur motioned for the child to come closer, so he could assist him.

Mathieu murmured smugly from his spot across from his brother, "If you made multilingualism a priority, you wouldn't be having this issue. Even knowing just one Romance language would help you decipher-"

Green eyes narrowed. "Mathieu, you are not helping-"

The Canadian shrugged, "I'm simply stating that if Alfred studied more and read manga less-"

"Anta wa urusai, Matthew!" Alfred bit back—using the English pronunciation of the name that always rubbed the Canadian wrong.

"Alfred," Arthur warned sternly.

"You see?" Rhys murmured. "Alfred _is_ studying. It's just a non-Indo European Language."

Alfred glared at his brother, "I'm not the lightweight picky eater. I can choose anything on this menu and choke it down without being a princess about it."

Things really unraveled from there and they both started in on each other much to the discomfort of their waiter.

"If America put any effort into its school system, children would be receiving instruction in foreign languages since grade school-"

"If Canada's so great, how come all your movies try and pretend they take place on American soil?!"

"Boys!" Arthur growled, but they paid him no mind.

They ignored France as well.

Finally, Arthur lifted the napkin from his lap and threw it on the table as he stood.

The loud scrape of his chair made several diners nearby give pause.

He picked Alfred up and left—ignoring calls from Francis that they could work it out...like they were quarrelling lovers. Imbecile.

Once they were in the lift, Alfred mumbled, "It was defense. He gunned for me first...he did. You saw. I just didn't feel like taking it today. I'm sorry...I...I'm not bad."

Arthur looked at him. "Did I say that? Did I say you were bad?"

The child studied the floor. "...No."

"No. You are not bad. I just need a nice, quiet meal. I assumed you'd agree," Arthur sighed as the elevator dinged for their floor.

He moved them out and heard Alfred's tummy rumble. Well, that certainly explained _his_ attitude. Alfred often grew surly when his appetite was neglected...

"Did you eat breakfast today?" Arthur questioned.

The child sighed, "I was running late this morning."

"I see. We'll have to find a hearty meal we can order for you."

"Room service?" Alfred pondered. "...It'll be overpriced."

"Not if I achieve tranquility," Arthur muttered.

Alfred chewed at his lip. "I can cover the bill since I kinda ruined tonight's-"

"No."

"Okay then, we can split it. We'll make it clear in the order that we-"

"No."

"Dad?"

Arthur opened their room's door and locked it behind them. It was tempting to use the chain lock, but Rhys would return the favor at an inopportune moment.

"I will cover it." He set the child down. "Now go find something you like."

Not too terribly long after, America was ecstatically eating a cheeseburger as Arthur picked at a salad that he probably shouldn't have ordered.

He just couldn't get over all the little details he'd overlooked. Mathieu hadn't greeted his brother with an embrace. There'd been no warm exchanges from either of them, actually.

And then...this...at dinner…

Their feud was escalating and Arthur had probably worsened matters by 'choosing' Alfred, but it wasn't like he could just stand by and let the elder rant at the younger.

He remembered too vividly how awful it felt; being ganged up on by elder siblings.

The child swallowed and then pulled his burger into two roughly equal halves.

Arthur blinked as one was set on his plate.

"It's good," Alfred assured him.

Arthur chuckled, "Red meat. Two meals in a row. Why not?"

They then ordered a dessert to split.

Arthur was finally starting to relax into the pillows as he watched the news. Alfred was curled up beside him.

He just couldn't bring himself to blame Alfred for the scene in the restaurant. He'd reacted defensively because he'd had an attack on his intellectuality in a moment that should've been peaceful.

Arthur took an extra napkin from the bedside table to gently clean off remnants of Devil's Food chocolate cake from Alfred's mouth.

He gently reached over to unbuckle the straps of the eyepatch.

He tutted at the red indents, "Sweet, you don't need it have it on so tightly."

He rubbed his thumb against the angry red marks. The child leaned into his touch.

The drapes of the room were open and Arthur fell asleep looking at the cityscape through the frosted window.

He woke up to hear water running. Groggily, he looked around for the source and noticed that his arms were empty.

The bed was empty. Where was-

"He's taking a bath," Rhys answered from his spot on the rollaway bed cramped near the wall.

The bathroom door was still open so Arthur approached gingerly.

Alfred was setting up his amenities: a short Batman toothbrush was now residing in the toothbrush cup alongside Arthur's plain adult red one and Rhys's blue.

The child was stripped down to his lightest layer: a white tank top and jeans. He still looked small and underfed with sharp little shoulder blades. Alfred looked over his shoulder, "Oh, hey. Need the toilet before I lock the door and head in?"

"Leave the door unlocked," Rhys called.

Alfred's face scrunched up, "Ew no. You go now if ya gotta. If you gotta go after I get in, you find somewhere _else_ to relieve yourself. This ain't the Middle Ages, buddy, I don't do communal toilet time."

Rhys called back, "If there's a fire or something and we need to leave quickly, it'd be nice if we didn't have to break down the door to fetch you."

Arthur suppressed a shudder; a natural disaster...it was the one thing they hadn't endured yet.

"Oh...fine."

Arthur moved past the child to reach a hand to test the water, "Ack!"

God, scalded himself!

He immediately turned the tap for cooler water.

"Hey!" Alfred whined.

"You'll boil yourself alive, you twit! Like a lobster! Like a bloody lobster! You want third-degree burns, boy?"

Alfred cringed and shuffled back.

Arthur blinked hard, "I...I'm sorry love, I-I am tired. I'm being short with you...I'm sorry."

The boy nodded, but the one blue eye continued to stare at him uncertainly.

With his dry hand, he brushed fringe away from Alfred's injured eye, "How's your eye, pet? Is it hurting, still? Do you need help with your drops?"

There was a shake of 'No.'

"Are you sure?"

"I just can't see yet, and it looks ugly."

"It looks fine," he assured as his thumb traced the white eye's eyebrow. "Handsome boy." He then spared a glance back to the bath. "Ugh, I need to drain some of that."

"S'fine," Alfred replied.

"It's too deep."

"It's fine," Alfred insisted.

"No, it's-"

"Arthur. Out," Rhys demanded.

Arthur forced himself to leave because he was overreacting. He knew he was overreacting. Rhys knew. Alfred knew and was indulging him a lot.

But it was no use; he was having an anxiety attack and it was hard convincing his nerves and paranoia that Alfred was just taking a bath and nothing bad was going to happen. There were no fae here spying on him; he'd had Rhys check the room three times when they settled in hours ago.

He collapsed into a leather chair by the window and proceeded to reread the same line of Mathieu's itinerary: _10:15 Trust Exercise._

And the only thing that kept him sane was the childish singing and splashing several feet away.

But then there was silence.

Arthur straightened.

"Wait," Rhys replied.

Nothing.

"Arthur, wait."

His heart began to pound.

"Arthur, just knock on the door if it'll give you peace..."

He did and there was no response.

He knocked harder. "Alfred, are you alright?!"

Dear God he was under the water! Must be! He must've fallen asleep!

He was three steps in, when the boy resurfaced.

America spluttered when he realized he wasn't alone, "D-dude?!"

"I-I...it got quiet-I worried-I knocked-you didn't answer-feared that you fell asleep or hit your head-or I-I-Sorry," he abruptly turned and walked out.

"Arthur," Rhys murmured lowly. "This is becoming a real problem. If you're not going to speak about it to me, or Alistair, than speak to a professional. I've seen your office; you have several lined up for Alfred, should he express any desire. Now think of yourself."

"I can't," he whispered.

Rhys frowned, "Of course you can-"

"No. I can't…" He couldn't afford to. Not when it could be used against him.

Arthur sat down on his bed, head in his hands. He stared at his shoes for a long time and gasped when Alfred was suddenly crouching there—pulling at Arthur's shoelaces and tying them together.

"Stop that."

"Good, you came back!" Alfred giggled. "You were totally zoning out."

Arthur flinched and felt his stomach flop when he realized he had indeed "zoned out" for fifteen minutes.

Alfred shuffled closer in his Buzz Lightyear pajamas and the hotel room's overlarge robe. He'd wrapped a towel into a sloppy turban for his wet hair.

"I know that look," Alfred mumbled and the amusement drained out of his face. "I've seen it. I've worn it. What happened? Who let'cha down?"

It was too close; the boy nearly hit the mark.

Arthur straightened and folded his hands into his lap, "It's nothing, sweet."

A droplet of water ran a trail down Alfred's face.

"I wish I knew how to make you feel better," the little one stated in that sweet simple tone of thinking aloud that made Arthur's throat catch. "I dunno if it'll do much but-" He wrapped his little arms around Arthur tightly.

"It does a lot," Arthur assured hoarsely as he squeezed him back. And then he unwrapped the towel turban to help the boy dry his hair before he caught a chill.

* * *

 _Knock. Knock._

Rhys looked up from where he was outlining a plan with his light-up pen in the pocket-sized book he kept for Alfred. His nephew needed magic lessons desperately if they were going to avoid future mishaps like the ones they encountered in December.

Wales already had bulleted the need for Introductory Courses in subjects such as: Magical Safety, Mystical Flora and Fauna, Fae Court Customs, Numerology, Runes, Tarots, Dream Interpretation, and Lore.

Once Alfred was a little more accustomed to the Arts, they could add Fae History, Spell Casting, Potion-making, Alchemy, and Ether Geography.

And after that they'd oversee him in linguistic courses; Mastery in Magic required the ability to interpret various archaic languages and texts.

Throughout his education they could see into adding additional subjects, or removing ones he had no talent in.

Hazel eyes narrowed as the shy knock came again.

Rhys looked over to where Arthur and Alfred were sleeping, unsure if he should get a second opinion before acting.

He clicked the pen off. He stood up and cracked his neck, semi-glad he'd left the drapes open. It was past midnight, but the moon provided some light for navigating the room.

As he approached the door, he recognized the aura and found Mathieu on the other side of it, red-eyed and distraught.

"Mathieu?"

The Canadian ran a hand through his hair, "I…I-I know it's late I just…and I know you and Francis said…to wait until morning but...I just...if I could talk to Arthur now..."

Rhys nodded and let the boy in—hopeful he'd redeem himself.

After his initial fit of temper in the restaurant, the lad's demeanor had given way to an extreme sorrow that had alarmed France and himself.

They'd had to assure him multiple times that he could apologize in the morning before he'd staggered off—dismissing both of his elders.

Which had meant Rhys was left dining with Francis...which was...unfortunate.

Rhys led Mathieu over to where Arthur was resting—back facing them.

Rhys gave him a careful nudge. "Arthur."

Arthur grumbled nonsensically.

"W-why's Alfred, here!?" the Canadian demanded—spying the American that Arthur was curled protectively around.

Rhys stiffened and gave Mathieu a hard look as more disappointment flooded him. "Because they're both suffering separation anxiety and attempts to keep them forcibly apart exacerbates it."

Mathieu chewed his bottom lip.

"It's just...I dunno if I can talk with...Alfred here," Violet eyes drifted to where Alfred's key card was lying on the bedside table.

The Welshman crossed his arms. "Mathieu, you'll need to find a way, if you wish to speak now. Because we're not going to deposit Alfred in his room, or abandon him here to go somewhere more private. It would be frightening for him to wake up all alone in the dead of night."

The Canadian started guiltily and thankfully didn't rebuttal with ' _Well, we could leave a note.'_

If he had, Rhys would've had to escort him back out into the hall.

Rhys gave his brother a harder shake.

"Wot?" The Briton blinked blearily as he looked over his shoulder. "Ma-mathieu? Was there an attack, are you alri-"

"I...I'm sorry about earlier...I just...I'm going through some rough-" His voice cracked.

Arthur sat up and turned the lamp on. They all squinted against the sudden introduction of bright light.

Canada took in a shaky breath, "I...I...you know, how...on New Year's I went to go talk to Sweden a-about my origins?"

Arthur nodded lethargically and stifled a yawn.

"Because I-I thought he was my father…"

Green eyes widened and the Englishman became alert.

"I thought it was him...s-since my land was explored by Vikings, but...but he isn't. He and Finland said to talk with Norway...so I visited him...but he's...he said it would've been Ancient Scandinavia…"

Wales and England shared a look and they both nodded slowly because...yes...that would make sense; Scandinavia had been quite an explorer.

And a cutthroat and a scourge on their lands...and...how were they going to put a positive spin on that? For Mathieu's sake?

Rhys released a long breath.

"But he's dead! Been dead...for a long time..." the Canadian forced out.

Arthur's face was very pale and Rhys was sure his was no different. Arthur swallowed and lifted the coverlet for Mathieu to slide in. The boy hesitated and Arthur shook the blanket edge.

The lad slipped in beside his former guardian. Rhys tucked the blanket around him and slid down onto his own mattress...aware that he couldn't give the sought for comfort the boy wanted.

"There, there," the Briton soothed.

"I'll _**never**_ know him," he choked.

"I'm sorry, lad."

"He'll never know me."

"I'm so sorry, love."

* * *

Alfred tried to nuzzle into Arthur's chest—away from the rousing rays of morning sunlight.

He yawned and blinked and gasped as he saw a familiar Canadian face resting on Arthur's alternate shoulder.

"Gah, my crib-mate nemesis," he whispered.

"Don't be so dramatic," Rhys scolded. "You're hardly nemeses."

"Says the creepy man who never sleeps and never gets along with his brothers."

Rhys popped a Tums tablet. "Rollaway bed for the first part and...look at my brothers. They're impossible. I _**am**_ the most amiable one."

Alfred giggled, "Maybe the...sensible one...I dunno if there is an amiable one."

The Welshman twisted and his back cracked.

"Oooh," Alfred winced, "Ya know...you can have my room...I should've thought of that yesterday."

Rhys waved him off, "Come along, get dressed. We'll go exploring before the meeting starts."

Alfred started to get up and then paused, "Wait. What if they talk mean stuff behind my back while I'm not here?"

"So you _don't_ want to play in the elevator with the blessing of adult supervision?"

Alfred threw his covers off. "Gimme a sec."

He rushed through his morning routine and was soon dragging his uncle down the hall.

It wasn't until two corridors later that he remembered his uncle didn't usually like such close physical contact.

He looked down at their hands and was surprised when his was given a squeeze.

The memory came suddenly and without really thinking, Alfred recited:

" _Albion teaches me letters by day_

 _with quill how to write the words that I say._

 _Eire and Alba teach me how to fight._

 _Cymru and I dance with faes through the night._ "

His uncle laughed and remarked, "It has been too long since I've heard that. Say it again, won't you?"

Alfred obliged and then they had a merry chase down to the elevator amidst solemn faced housekeeping workers.

For a moment, he was centuries away—racing down castle halls with Uncle Rhys...Uncle Rhys who always let him win silly games like that and snuck him pastries and tarts during his music lessons.

* * *

Read & Review Please! : DDD


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or Frosty the Snowman. Or Power Rangers. Or M &Ms.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Fluff. Angst. Drama. Norman Conquest. Could make you politically fussy (EU). Some hard pokes at Germany because...yeah. American view of Canadian personal defense laws...yeah...no 'Stand Your Ground' Laws up there...

 **AN:** Hey! Survived my midterms! And now I get to start worrying about two Middle English projects, a Film Project, and two huge papers : DDD Thank you so much for your reviews! They keep me inspired! : D

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Frosty** **the Evil Snowman**

* * *

Arthur rearranged a platter of pink and purple macarons for the third time—taking care to look oblivious to his surroundings.

Contrary to how he presented himself, England could understand a good deal of French. The Norman Conquest had made learning it a vital skill to maintain power after the takeover. France, William, and their men were hell bent on replacing every official with a French one. It would take several centuries and bubonic plague to shake the French Language out of his lands and even then quite a few of their words and syntactical structures remained.

Yes, England's skills were outdated and rusty, but you don't magically forget several centuries of occupation and knowledge. He blinked...unless you were America and dabbled in dangerous magic. He shook his head and focused on the men's words; he could make out a terse conversation unfolding beside the heart-shaped crystal punch bowl.

"You could have come to me," Francis insisted. "How is it that I'm the last to know about this?"

"I didn't want to upset you, Papa," Mathieu murmured as he set down his clipboard.

Francis ran a hand through his hair. "I'm not upset that you want to know more about your origins. I'm upset you don't confide in me. I met him. Arthur and his brothers have met him. The Nordics have met him. We will pool our resources-"

"...he's still dead…" Mathieu mumbled, head bowed.

"But he is not forgotten."

No; it was hard to forget a brute like that. Arthur would need to assign Rhys to ferreting out a way of relaying such information in the least insulting manner possible. Scotland and Northern Ireland would lack the tact necessary to think of Canada's feelings. They'd speak of him exactly as they remembered him.

Speaking of tact, he needed to speak with Alfred. He didn't think the boy would purposely aggravate such a tender subject, but tripping over it could cause troubles. Alfred's new leaf of "being more honest" had its ups and downs...and the downs...

Sometimes he was a bit too forthright when giving his opinion on Arthur's choice of television show or Arthur's cooking talents. Which could be irritating even when it was innocent speculation.

Other times, his musings took an especially dark turn.

America was opening up about the frustrations of his early days of sovereignty. How frightened he'd been, how overwhelming his responsibilities were, how it seemed like he had no one to turn to in the whole world.

" _You could've come to me any time,"_ Arthur had murmured and had been surprised and a bit hurt to hear the bitter response:

" _I wish you wouldn't say such things...it makes it sound like I suffered for nothing."_

Apparently...suffering was still acceptable as long as it was for something.

He still needed to find a way to break Alfred out of that mentality.

Mathieu sighed as he climbed up a stepladder and Francis kept it steady. With the Frenchman's help, Canada hung a ' _Happy Valentine's Day_ ' banner.

Arthur tried not to flinch as "œil" cropped up.

Arthur sighed and looked at the entry doors of the meeting room for Alfred and Rhys. Rhys usually arrived at events 5 to 10 minutes early while Alfred tended to be 5 to 10 minutes late. He was curious to see if that meant they'd arrive on the dot.

Germany entered the room with Italy half a step behind. The two blonds locked gazes for a moment before each looked away.

That old familiar lurch of fury tightened England's chest: for two World Wars, for scores of dead citizens, for the death-knells of his empire, and currently for an immigration policy that left his people feeling exposed, for a weighty membership fee that seemed to increase with every year, and a council of foreigners determined to encroach on his sovereignty with their power-hungry ambitions...

He blew out a hard breath.

This was not the time nor place…to get into that…

There were positives to the equation too…free movement of labor, access to the Single Market, common currency...and a sense of unity with Europe...

But the negatives...God, it was like an itch...

And considerably less benign than the one that woke him this morning.

Not long after 7:00 am, Arthur had raised a hand to scratch the tip of his nose and felt paper scrape his face.

He'd blinked and registered a note from the hotel room's stationary clipped to the sleeve of his pajama shirt.

 _Alfred and I are exploring the hotel._

 _Worry not, I'll see that he's fed_

 _something to tide him over_

 _until the meeting starts._

 _-Rhys_

At the time, Arthur had frowned—peeved that Alfred had been spirited away. The child usually woke up affectionate and Arthur was missing out on early morning cuddles.

But as the two stepped through the door right at 10 and Alfred pointed up at the ceiling, and Rhys set the boy on his shoulders so he could poke at the shiny pink streamers dangling down…

Arthur couldn't muster any irritation.

Alfred tapped the harp of a cherub and then pointed to Rhys and pantomimed playing a harp.

Rhys nodded.

Rhys was usually so hands off when it came to interacting with the children. Yes, he spoke to them, instructed them, and recorded their likes and dislikes, but he seldom...held or carried them.

Arthur frowned, had he always been that way?

No...

He'd carried, soothed, rough-housed, and played with Arthur and his brothers growing up. Had doted quite a bit on Alfred and Mathieu and their colonies of the 1700s until…

Arthur blinked...until?

When was it that Rhys closed himself off?

His brother noticed him watching and blushed. Rhys set Alfred back down on his feet who made a beeline to Arthur.

England braced a hand against the wall as the child nation slammed into his legs.

He winced and swallowed a litany of curses because he remembered the alternative: where Alfred cringed from his touch and leaned away when he tried to carry him.

He pet the soft wheat hair and nodded at the chatter which consisted of 'people watching' and the various noses, ears, and beards the child observed. He half-expected the little one to write it down like a dedicated ornithologist.

It wasn't so different to hearing a colonial Alfred listing all the 'silly' people he'd seen at the docks while waiting to meet England after his ship came to port.

Nostalgia crashed over him and he gave the little body a gentle squeeze as the cockles of his heart warmed. He looked up and noticed Mathieu watching with an odd expression.

Arthur's head tilted and he raised an imposing eyebrow.

Mathieu sighed.

Arthur's eyes narrowed. He felt for Mathieu. Truly. Losing a parent at any time, let alone at such a tender age, was tragic. But...maybe it was callous but...in Arthur's view...it wasn't as though the role was fully vacant.

Arthur had been hesitant to name himself "Father" to Mathieu out of respect to Francis and Mathieu in accordance to the nature of the changeover in guardianship. He'd also refrained from doing so with his other wards because many weren't entirely willing when they came under wing.

Alfred was a special case in that he'd bestowed the title on Arthur freely...even before the realization of their blood relation. It wasn't as though Alfred had a monopoly on using that title. If the others wanted to call him "Dad," they could.

And while Mathieu certainly had plenty to be upset about...it in no way excused his recent behavior towards Alfred. His method of venting was unacceptable and if he didn't take steps to change it immediately; they were going to have troubles.

"England-san, America-san," Japan greeted.

"Japan!" America turned with his arms wide open as though he was about to bestow a hug to the Asian island nation.

Japan froze and seemed to brace himself for a display of unwanted affection.

America's smile faltered, "..."

America turned back and hugged England's legs again. It was...probably for the best, though Arthur's left knee popped unhappily.

"Bon matin!" Francis greeted. "If we can have everyone's eyes over here?"

Canada cleared his throat, "We-we'll be starting today's meeting with a little trust exercise called: Minefield. If everyone would please pair up?"

As they assembled, the doors opened with a harsh push.

"Guuuuuuten Morgan!" Prussia cried as he crashed the meeting. "Allow the awesome Prussia to have first pick-"

"Bruder." Germany frowned. "We agreed that if you stayed in the room, you could buy a useless souvenir. You were not invi-"

"When you are as awesome as me, you are welcome wherever you g-oh?" Prussia caught sight of America. "Kesesese! Hey, hey, half-pint!"

America immediately let go of England and stepped around him as Prussia strode over.

The albino grinned sharply as he crossed his arms. "Well, well." He lowered his voice. "Back to being Daddy's boy, huh?" he tutted and shook his head.

"Gilbert," Arthur warned. The last thing he needed was the arrogant berk undoing all the hard work they'd put into repairing their bond.

"Ugh, if you'd have seen vhat a crybaby I had to deal vith during training. ' _Prussia, it's too cold to train.' 'Prussia, my arms are sore.' 'Prussia, you are too cruel.'_ It vas alvays someting."

"Prussia," England's fists clenched. If there was ever a topic he didn't feel like discussing—

"You chased me out of my tent, in my bedclothes, in the rain...with a bayonet!" America whined. "Dude!...Psycho."

"Yes, hehehehe. The element of surprise! And you got faster!"

"I got shanked," Alfred grumbled.

"And _**then**_ you learnt to be faster!"

"Yeah, and then you totally up and left me—with Spain and France...they're like the weird uncles you wouldn't trust to watch over a goldfish."

The man guffawed, "Awwww, did you vant me to hold your hand in battle?"

Alfred's cheeks puffed. "Yeah, I think we're done here."

"Ooooh. Somebody's gone soft," Gilbert taunted. "And vasn't fast enough." He gestured to the missing eye.

"Gilbert. Enough." Arthur growled as his hackles rose and a strong desire to punch his face in filled him. The Prussian was largely responsible for Alfred's introduction to war and making light of their conflict...deserved a good jab.

"S-soft?" Alfred snapped. "You think I'm soft?!"

"Ja."

"Oh yeah?"

"Ja!"

"Yeah?!"

"JA!"

"I'm gonna beat you Gil! You Frosty the Evil Snowman whose eyes glow like coal!" He raced over to where Mathieu was reading off the instructions.

Germany sighed as Italy hung off his arm, "Bruder...why?"

The red eyed man grinned, "I live to rattle his cage. Poke the Gentle Giant in the eye. It's good fun. And it's good for him. Exercise."

"MOVE OUTTA THE WAY LOSERS, I'M WINNIN' THIS THING!" Alfred vowed.

"You...you need a partner Al," Mathieu pointed out. "And it's not about winnin-"

"Who else wants to WIN THIS? And CRUSH our competition?" Alfred declared.

"Crushing sounds fun, da," Russia agreed.

Arthur shuddered.

Alfred stared, "Anybody...else? Anybody?"

Canada looked away. "I'll be managing the event."

England tried to move forward to the rescue, but Prussia snagged his arm. "It'll be like old times! We're Team: _Crusaders_!"

Arthur's teeth grounded against each other as his jaw tightened.

Canada passed out one blindfold per team and blushed when Francis made the unnecessary comment: "Kinky."

"If you'll please follow me to the far end of the room, eh? You'll notice crumpled paper balls on the floor. Those are the mines. One player will wear the blindfold and enter the field. The other will guide them around the mines with instructions."

Three minutes in and there were multiple complications.

Italy found the whole thing too stressful and had sat down and rocked back and forth. Seeing he was a tripping hazard for other players, Germany carried him out. Japan and China couldn't agree on who to go first as neither wanted to be ordered about.

Gilbert didn't listen at all to Arthur's instructions, "I got across the field in record time and that should offset some of the mines I hit."

Arthur scoffed, "You're legs would've been bloody torn off, you knob-"

Wales wasn't faring much better, "Well, you've managed to make me step on each one. Congratulations."

"Je suis desole," Francis rolled his eyes.

Stupid frog. He didn't know what he was getting himself into.

Rhys's eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms; from that moment on, he communicated only in Welsh. Which made Francis's turn...frustrating. It was also likely the Frenchman sensed from the tone that Rhys was doing more than directing; he was spouting that Francis held a number of unflattering intimate relations with various farm animals.

Arthur shrugged; some of it might have been true. The Frenchman spent much of the 1600s drunk off his arse.

By the end, in a shocking twist; America and Russia's combined ambition led them to victory. Both successfully navigated each other through the field without either taking a hit.

"Where's our trophies?" America demanded.

Canada frowned, "I told you, it wasn't about winning."

Russia smiled and leaned in, "I would like trophy now, yes?"

Mathieu swallowed uneasily as the man's shadow fell across him. "I'll...see what I can do."

Concerned that World War III could break out without intervention, England, along with a sulking Rhys and Francis, swiftly approached the two Cold War rivals.

He was just commending them for their display of cooperation, when Russia grinned downward and remarked: "It reminds me of our days in the circus."

America turned red.

"What's this?" England stumbled to a stop and frowned.

"One of our few missions together in WWII. Infiltration espionage. It was only a few weeks," the Russian man stated.

Alfred fidgeted. "I really don't wanna get into the details-"

"We were chosen because we, and my sestry, have background in circus!" Russia offered.

"You were in a circus?!" Arthur gaped at his son. "Doing what? Er, why?! When?!"

"Arthur, breathe," Rhys muttered out of the corner of his mouth. And asked in a surprisingly hopeful tone, "Were you a ticket taker?"

Alfred gave a tight smile. "Look, that was a long time ago. The army was desperate, they saw a note about it in the archives."

"What did you do?" Arthur demanded.

"I was Strong Man," Russia explained. He chuckled and flexed his biceps. " _ **He**_ was High Wire."

"H-h-high wire?" His heart began pounding into overtime. "Why would you do something so dangerous?" He rasped.

"It wasn't dangerous, I had training."

"How high up were you?!"

"Like a birdie," Russia smiled—hooking his thumbs and flapping his hands.

Rhys sighed.

"Tex was never a fan. I stopped. We did some bounty hunting, western expansion, and then we settled down, kinda. _**I was a baker**_ **!** " Alfred emphasized the last part loudly as though it made up for all the other things he just mentioned. "I've clocked in more hours as a baker than like anything else."

"Bounty hunting?! What for?!"

America shrugged, "Military had me on the move a lot and sometimes the pay took forever to get there (No Interstate) and I...had to make ends meet. Yeah, I've held down some...interesting jobs."

"Alfred!?"

"I don't mean 'interesting' like that," Alfred insisted. "I mean, I've never been like, a stripper, or anything down that lane."

"You missed out!" Prussia called. "Easy money! When you're awesome!"

Arthur choked.

"You said that oddly," Rhys commented. "...Texas or Hawaii?" He frowned in thought and then shrugged, "...or Alaska?"

"Tightrope walking, bounty hunting, what else?" Arthur frowned.

"I was very briefly in the Pony Express. But Tex didn't like that either and then there was the Civil War and...well...I only did one job. It sucks because I thought it was right down our alley. Horsemanship, adventure, mail, exploration! And they were hot after orp-" Alfred coughed and cut himself off. "Hey um, look...there's punch over there...ya want some?"

"Orphans?" Arthur's eyebrows twitched. He whipped out his cellphone, did a search, and held up a picture of an old recruitment poster, "Orphans Wanted!?"

Alfred blinked and went pale, "Uh…Oh look, it's time for the meeting!" He sprinted for a chair between China and Japan.

* * *

England swatted Rhys away as the Welshman tried to pull him back by the elbow.

Canada had dismissed the meeting for a quick snack break when a dispute between England and Germany began escalating.

Ludwig scowled, "You are being short-sighted, we have a responsibility to the globe to-"

"No, _**you're**_ being short-sighted. You're determined to rewrite your past history with present philanthropy. We have too much at stake. If citizens consider themselves European rather than English or German, we have lost our borders. If we don't have borders, where are our identities? How can we be countries? Would you see us all dissolve into ghosts of our former glory?" England gave a pointed look at Prussia who went very still. "For the creation of some Super State? What kind of personification will _**that**_ beget? Do you truly think you'll be able to control it? Especially should it decide that it deserves to rule all of Europe? Norway? Iceland? Switzerland? Albania? Prussia knows how difficult it is to manage a colony. Do you, Ludwig?"

Germany barked back, "Globalization is key if we're to solve the many economic and social issues facing humanity at this time. The scale of atrocities unfolding in other lands demands compassion-"

"It's key for certain ideologies to promote themselves at the expense of others' rights which were already in place-"

"Dad!" There came a persistent tugging on his sleeve, "Hey! Dad! Dad! Daaaaad!"

He glowered down, "Alfred, I am speaking right-GOOD LORD!"

A trail of blood was leaking from Alfred's mouth, "...Help."

After overreacting and sending far too many people for towels and ice, Arthur had Alfred on his hip.

" 'S Russia's fault…" Alfred pouted. "He heard me talking about my tooth fairy anxiety to Japan…"

Arthur looked over at the hulking Russian man, who smiled. "I gave him taffy from the table."

"Now she's gonna come for me. Here. Where I'm defenseless because of stupid Canadian laws where burglars and trespassers have the upper hand!" Alfred lamented with a towel hanging out of his mouth.

"Germany can offer his protection! Vee!" Italy offered.

Alfred looked away, "Yeah, I read about his New Year's...think I'm gonna pass."

Germany stiffened and then sighed and looked over at England, "We will...continue our... _discussion_...later."

"What am I going to do, Dad!?" Alfred cried.

"You're going to chomp down on that towel" Arthur instructed. "And let me see."

There in the center of Alfred's palm was his small tooth. It's roots were completely dissolved.

"I thought I had more time...to plan," Alfred muttered woefully.

Arthur readjusted his hold on the child and remarked, "It needed to come out, and so it did."

"I'm unprepared."

"Say 'Ah.'"

His gum was a deep red, but the bleeding had ebbed.

"Good. Now be a good fellow and don't go poking it with your tongue. Else it will start bleeding again."

"It feels weird. My mouth tastes bad."

Arthur nodded, "Rhys can you get him some punch with ice?"

"Prussia has been there."

Contaminated.

Arthur groaned.

"But we did find several vending machines throughout the building," Rhys reported.

"That's right we made a map!" Alfred grinned. "There like vertical treasure chests. You just have to pay to play."

The elder blond blinked. "Right."

"Let's go Captain Blindside," Rhys nodded.

"Aye aye, anchor's aweigh!"

* * *

Alfred blew a lock of hair out of his face. The meeting was a total bust with Mathieu wanting everyone to share current and personal events...dude, that was just asking for trouble.

Arthur was super snippy for the rest of the day, Prussia was being a pain, Alfred had to team up with Ivan, and Alfred's smile suffered a casualty! And now the fairy was coming for him. And his trophy for mine-dodging was lame! He frowned at it. Just a cheapy snowglobe from the souvenir shop downstairs. He glared at the Canadian trinket. TORONTO was spelled out in block letters at the center of the globe. He was tempted to take it home and use it as target practice.

" _I don't believe this?!"_

Alfred startled.

" _You told_ _ **him**_ _and not me?!_ " Tex freaked.

And to complicate matters further, his skyping session with Tex was going to the dogs. His brother was super upset that he hadn't shared his dental troubles.

Alfred looked back down at his laptop. "No, Bro; It's not like that-"

" _Sounds like that-"_

"No...he just...was here…"

" _I am ONE phone call away!"_

"Dude, I didn't want you to worry! You've got enough going on-"

" _I'm worrying now! You can tell me anything! Anytime!"_

"I know…"

The rant only ended when Rhys said it was dinner time and Tex gave a terse, " _I love you...even though ya done me wrong,"_ before signing off.

Alfred sighed; he needed to find his brother something super duper cool at the airport to calm him down and shut him up.

He'd been looking forward to dinner being something laid back and easy...except whenever Alfred made suggestions, Arthur shot them all down like they were clay pigeons.

"We do not need so much red meat in one weekend. My cholesterol will go through the roof and it's not healthy for you either!"

He got worked up into such a hissy fit about health and fitness, Alfred finally just walked away and played with Hop in a corner while his stomach growled.

A few minutes later, a heavy hand rested on top of his head. "I'm sorry...I'm just...do you want chicken? Fish?"

He shrugged a shoulder. "...don't care." And he really didn't by that point.

Arthur's brows came together contritely as he nodded.

Only...

Dinner with Arthur didn't go so well either; nothing the waiter did was good enough and none of the food was tasty enough, and the restaurant was too crowded and the people too boorish and the night was too chilly and for God's-Sake-Stop-Fidgeting-Alfred.

Still, at least his uncle managed to steer the conversation away from his circus days. He needed time to think of a good way to explain that time of his life that was uplifting.

After that, Rhys took up Alfred's offer of his hotel room and sought relief from Hurricane Arthur over there.

" _Knock three times, if you're in need of sanctuary,"_ Rhys had muttered on his way out.

Alfred had kinda hoped that Rhys leaving would mellow Arthur out, since having his brothers around sometimes got him all wound up. Which, considering what seemed to be happening with Mattie and him, Alfred could totally relate.

He hadn't intended on getting so defensive the other night but whenever people's tones got nasty, he got nasty back!

He was waiting for Arthur's shoulders to come down, for him to loosen his tie, and remove his cufflinks.

He was always most relaxed when he took off his watch...when schedules weren't in effect...

Except...

Arthur collapsed onto the bed without even removing his shoes.

Alfred abruptly remembered that was a really bad sign. _When Father's boots remained on, his coat tightly buttoned, and his cravat knotted..._

He felt his breath quicken.

Arthur massaged his temples and snatched up the television remote—turning it to the news, muting the volume, and then griping over the captions.

 _Father poured over paperwork and hissed to himself about 'imbeciles' now and then. Alfred watched from just outside the doorframe, if he said or did anything, he was too loud._

"H-hey?" he ventured.

"Wot?" Arthur replied without looking at him.

"Do you...have a headache?"

"Yes."

 _Getoutgetoutgetout._

He walked over to his things. He selected his pajamas, put his mini-flashlight in his pocket, and tucked Hop under his arm. He pushed a chair over to the door so he could unchain the lock.

Even an evil tooth fairy would be less of a hassle than a pissy England.

"What the devil are you doing?" Arthur demanded, alarmed as the bolt slid free.

"I'm gonna go hang with Rhys or Kiku or...something…while you chillax."

"Now!? It's past nine."

He shrugged his shoulders. "...I'll figure something out." Even if it just meant wandering around the hotel...though it increased his chances of being tangled up in France and Prussia's hijinks.

Green eyes went wide and the remote fell to the floor.

"..."

Alfred stared at the controller. The back portion, that held the batteries in, had popped off.

"You don't have to leave." Arthur hurried over and put the lock back into place. "You don't have to…" He picked Alfred up maneuvered the chair back to its place with his foot as he muttered. "No need for…"

"..."

"No need at all for you to...you're no bother...not at all..."

"..."

"Daddy just needs…"

"Valium?"

Arthur coughed and looked away. "Yes...but he'll make do with Paracetamol." He took two, stared hard at the mini-fridge, and finally took off his shoes.

They got ready for bed.

Arthur turned the programming to cartoons; the volume was super quiet, but Alfred appreciated the gesture.

"Do you have your tooth?" the older blond asked as he massaged his temples.

"Yeah," Alfred pointed to a neat little origami pocket Japan had made to hold it in.

"Well, bring it here."

Arthur put it under the pillow and Alfred swallowed nervously, "Do I have to do this?"

"Pish posh, she'll give you something nice. You'll see," Arthur smiled gently. He tucked some of Alfred's fringe behind an ear. The American watched with one studious eye; the old man was trying super hard to be nice.

He tucked and re-tucked Alfred into the bed beside him and rubbed his back soothingly.

Alfred wished there was a way to tell him that he knew he was sorry...that Alfred understood...that he was...off...right now. But...he didn't think anyone would take a message of ' _stop loving on me with your guilt_ ' well.

He floated in and out of consciousness and vaguely heard the T.V. channel go back to the news. He sighed when he heard his dad muttering about "idiots."

Alfred pressed into an embrace which was slowly tensing as his dad got wound up again.

The T.V. was turned off and the tone warmed, "There, there, love. I'm here."

The lights were dimmed.

Now if only he'd stay…

Alfred drifted off and then returned to the sound of whirring wings.

"This would be easier if you just told me which pillow," a high, squeaky, inhuman voice commented.

Oh...God... _ **it**_ was here.

"A moment please, I'm hardly nocturnal," Arthur yawned.

"I'm on a schedule-"

Alfred clenched his eyes shut and whimpered.

"Oh look, he's awake," Arthur whispered. "Nonono, pet. It's alright. This is good. Meet Fifi-"

America shook his head and tried to get under the blankets.

Arthur sighed, "Sorry. It's not you. He's a smidgen...nervous...and for good reason. Our last few interactions with the fae, haven't gone as well as I'd hoped. Perhaps a raincheck, maybe, Beltane's Day to take it? So I can prepare him?"

"No! I don't want it hanging over my head either!" Alfred snapped from his burrow.

"This is why I prefer to work while they're asleep," she grumbled.

Which sounded hella creepy; Alfred started crying loudly.

England sighed and reached down and pulled America back out into the open air. He squeezed his eyes shut.

The buzzing whirl of wings grew closer.

The fae hissed an exasperated breath near Alfred's ear, "Alby, I know you're big shot countries and you've all the time in the world, but some of us fae have jobs that keep us in existence! I have been waiting on this one for ages. It was scheduled for 1792. Do you have any idea the backlogging that's resulted from this? All the repeat check-in's we've had to make over the years?"

So there were even more fae spying on him?! As if the whole friggin' UnSeelie Kingdom wasn't enough! Alfred wailed harder.

Phantom fingers pet Nantucket gently, "Now, now, little bairn. It's alright. Look Albion, if you two don't want me to have this one, burn it. I'll come back for the sixth one. He'll be older. It'll be less scary. And you can work on teaching him how to separate Hollywood fiction from real life in the meantime."

"Nonono, this is good for him," Arthur argued.

Alfred peeked to see long bony fingers on thin hands...connected to overly long arms, "Eep." He buried his face in Arthur's chest.

"Fifi _**please**_ ; I need him to have some good interactions with fae. Alfred, greet the nice fairy."

"Noooooo," Alfred moaned like a wounded dog.

She sighed, "I'm sorry Alby. I heard about that debacle in the UnSeelie Court. Terrible. If they'd have socialized that brat more, it wouldn't have happened. I get what you're trying to do. Really. I'm just on such a tight schedule. I've gotta leave now, if I'm gonna make it to Brazil. Valentine's Day, Halloween, Hockey Season, these are just really busy times for me."

"Understood," Arthur replied stiffly. "I apologize for the inconvenience."

"No need," she replied in that squeaky voice "Just keep telling him, not all of us are bad. And if he wants to meet, we'll set something up. I'll grab someone to cover my shift, and we can share some fun stories." She flew close to Alfred's ear again and said in a semi-patronizing-sugary-baby-talk voice, "Don't worry popkin, Alba reacted much worse than you."

* * *

Canada sighed and stared at his phone, contemplating yet again whether he should proceed. He pocketed the device.

He stood and walked over to the window—looking out at the lightly snowcapped buildings.

Technically, his event was a success; Hotel Management only had two complaints about noise and one warning about a reported, but unproven, case of streaking. Which always seemed to happen whenever France and Prussia were under one roof. Thankfully, Spain wasn't there...he tended to be the one who was caught...and unable to explain it away.

He looked over his shoulder at his room's coffee table. There was a shiny red gift bag containing a Red Power Ranger action figure, Valentine's Themed M&Ms, and a small bag of chocolate dipped marshmallows.

It was meant to be a peace offering to his little brother.

The time apart since New Year's had done Canada good and he felt an intrinsic surge of care and concern for his brother as he read over Scotland's email detailing his treatment by the UnSeelies; stalked, harassed, and then injured at their hands.

He'd felt strangely outside of himself when he'd watched a distraught Arthur return with his brother's unmoving form sometime after midnight.

He'd stood there in his hoodie and sweatpants and stared.

Arthur in armor, Alistair in highlander gear, Alfred's face heavily bandaged and bloodstained...

It was so...surreal…

He'd had nightmares about that during America's Revolution. That Alfred would push their colonizer too far and Arthur's mercy would dry up. He'd strike...and then regret...and Mathieu would be the one in the house when he staggered across the threshold with a felled rebel in his arms.

He'd been totally worthless in the chaos following...thankfully Olivia and Jet stepped up.

Was still worthless actually…

Here his brother had been in peril again and he just...

He just...couldn't act...couldn't involve himself in a meaningful way. Every time he tried, a bitterness that he thought was resolved, bubbled up to the surface.

When England had fired back a snarky email to Canada's accusation that Arthur did NOT treat his colonies equally...the absurdity of the situation hit home.

Alfred was receiving the attention Mathieu had wanted as a child. Which just...hadn't been possible.

The native tribes had always treated him as an Other...and his time with France wasn't nearly long enough for him to feel safe and secure...and then he'd gone to England...but...

England was too busy then...

And too soon, Canada was called into action as a pillar of support in the British Empire. He'd learnt to appreciate the attention, the respect, the inclusion that brought him...but it cost him a good deal of innocence.

Being a right hand man and serving with his uncles of sorts...all the war and suffering he'd seen...

He wished something as simple as a bubblegum blowing contest could bring him joy.

It was strange to think of all the battles his brother had participated in, without...being fundamentally affected. That he wasn't emotionally capable of seeing the full extent of his actions.

'Water off a duck's back.'

It made him angry, it made him envious, it made him afraid; what manner of questionable missions had Alfred been sent on through the ages that the rest of them would've immediately shot down?

Mathieu pocketed his wallet and key card, and took up the bag.

Rhys had texted back that they were in the hotel lobby. Rhys was growing frustrated with him, Mathieu could sense it in the minute twitches, the harder frowns. But at least he hadn't closed the metaphorical door on him...for which the Canadian was grateful.

When Mathieu arrived down there, it made him a little embarrassed that Arthur presented two boxes of chocolate which were painstakingly identical to his former wards.

Mathieu then set his gift down in front of Alfred and tried not to be thrilled that Arthur looked pleased.

Because it was supposed to be a kind thing to do for Alfred. To make _**him**_ happy. And to do something nice for Alfred in order to have Arthur be proud of him…

Merde...that wasn't how this thing was s'posed to work...

The young American chewed at his chapped lower lip. "...I didn't get you anything."

"That's alright. I...I didn't come to your Pirate Party. So...so we're even."

Alfred gave a slow nod that caused the dark sunglasses he was wearing to slip forward.

He'd taken off his eyepatch in favor of the glasses and whenever he moved just so, Mathieu caught unsettling glimpses of a stark white eye.

He should've been more moved and he knew it. If it had been Sealand or Wy, he'd be horrified. Because it was Alfred...and Alfred never looked before he leapt…

He shook his head.

What was wrong with him?

He watched Alfred smile as he pulled out the action figure and worked its arms. Mathieu had seen to it that the toy had batteries in it and that its features worked correctly. For a moment, he felt it; that spark of happiness that Alfred was happy. But then Alfred crawled up onto Rhys's lap and the way it caused Rhys's eyebrows to lift…

The very slight curve of his lips that meant he was quietly delighted...

It shouldn't have hurt.

Arthur reached over to adjust the collar of Alfred's shirt and then to the hem to keep his midriff from showing.

None of it should hurt.

The three of them huddled over there…

Blond, blond, red blond...

Blue, hazel, green…

All the same skin tone...because Alfred was always pale in winter…

Arthur's hand brushed Alfred's hair and for a moment pushed Nantucket down...and they looked even more alike...

They shared a smile. Mathieu had never realized until right then, that they had the same close-lipped smile. Alfred usually gave tooth-bearing grins and Arthur was a perpetual frowner.

Mathieu chewed at his lip.

He'd never have that with his own father...

Warm, fawning moments...

Observers noting their similarities...

Canada pulled out his phone and texted a secretary to schedule an appointment with a counselor.

He needed help.

* * *

Read & Review Please! : D


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or Super Sentai: _Uchu Sentai Kyuranger_." Or the Hetalia segment: "This is a pen." Or the Canterbury Tales. Or Skype. Or Angry Birds. Or See's Candy. Or Edible Arrangements. Or Hostess Twinkies. Or Crayola.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Tips on visiting Saudi Arabia lifted directly from the travelling website: landingdotcom. Reference to "Bashi" faux pas moves when wielding chopsticks. Reference to Japanese Uchi-Soto Dynamic where there are differing rings of insiders vs. outsiders and levels of varying intimacy. Drama. Draaama. DRAMA. Electric blankets can be dangerous.

 **AN:** Sooo...I don't give notes for alternate languages too often since it tends to ignite differing interpretation wars and because I like to encourage people to have cyber adventures! : D It's like when I read James Joyce stories and I'm a noob who doesn't understand all of his Irish history plugs cuz I'm 'Murican...So I research them. In other news, my college classes continue: my classmates and I have to read out a Middle English passage; 8 lines of Canterbury Tales (Reeve's Tale) in front of a crowd tomorrow. Woohoo. Mine starts with "And nameliche ther was a greet collegge…" : D

 **Chapter** **4: How's the Guv'nor?**

* * *

Arthur struggled with his pair of chopsticks. He'd asked for this. He'd agreed to a spur of the moment lunch date with Alfred and Kiku over one with Mathieu and Francis (who'd gone to a French Restaurant).

He probably should've have gone with them...it would've been a good opportunity for the two of them to ask Mathieu if he was alright. Mathieu just wasn't himself. What happened to the small child who never grumbled about holding his hand as they crossed busy streets? The teenager who would balance a tray laden with tea and poetry, so they could have a pleasant afternoon...even years later...when England wasn't his colonizer anymore?

He'd moved forward about to agree when his left arm was tugged back...and there'd been something vulnerable in the way Alfred was clutching his hand...Something that rang false in America's young voice when he informed them that he had plans with Japan.

Arthur remained with the child.

Japan's look of surprise as he crossed the lobby and Alfred called out: " _Hey, let's go to lunch! You pick where!_ " Confirmed it.

He did NOT have plans with the man.

Arthur watched Alfred lift a small amount of rice to his mouth.

Rhys was staying behind at the hotel. Part of Arthur was a bit envious that his brother got to relax, but Alfred had seemed so excited to " _hang with two of his favorite cool old dudes_ " that he went along. "Cool" just wasn't an adjective often assigned to him by the boy...he could overlook the "old" part.

And France would have likely been even more unbearable than usual; there were Valentine's Day decorations throughout the city and the "Holiday of Love" would've made the "Nation of Love" a complete prat. If he had gone with Francis and Mathieu, Francis would have probably cracked jokes to the serving staff that they were a menage a trois or some other such nonsense.

Besides, time with Francis might do Mathieu good. For all his many flaws, Francis could be a better listener than Arthur. While the Briton had taken an awful lot of teasing as a child from the French nation as a result, the fact of the matter was that when things went wrong... Francis often had a far more sympathetic ear than Alistair.

Of course that wasn't hard when Alba would usually cut in after one sentence: " _I donnae care. Eat your food. Go to sleep. Tomorrow yeh'll be fine."_

At any rate, Mathieu had been a much better sport that morning and had graciously accepted Arthur's gift. Whether that was because he'd made sure to make things "equal" or whether he'd realized how silly the whole thing was...it was too soon to tell.

Still, the lad did provide Alfred with a nice new toy and candies the child enjoyed. It gave Arthur hope that they wouldn't end up estranged the way Arthur and his siblings were. It often seemed like only the greatest of catastrophes could bind the U.K. Brothers together.

Kiku's chopsticks moved elegantly without dropping or dripping.

Arthur glanced at Alfred, who was seated beside him, happily eating his sushi.

Thankfully, the layout of the Japanese restaurant was still Westernized enough that chairs were present. Seat cushions always did a number on his knees.

He winced as his child took a huge bite. The little cheeks puffed like a gluttonous chipmunk's.

"Alfred?" He scolded.

Alfred chewed and gestured that he couldn't talk.

"America-san, it isn't always necessary to eat it all in one bite," Japan offered. "If something is too large, you may take a bite and set it down on your plate. We do not want you to injure yourself."

Alfred swallowed, "Good note. It's usually cut in smaller proportions at Japan's. And my mouth's smaller now."

England blinked. Right. Riiight. Eating in one bite was a Japanese custom. In fact, Alfred seemed fairly well versed. He'd recited various phrases with Japan and maneuvered his chopsticks with far more finesse than Arthur did. This was why he usually requested a knife and fork, and Japan indulged him. Alfred had insisted that they all use the utensils.

He picked up from the slight smirk Alfred made now and then, that he enjoyed watching his father squirm.

What truly annoyed Arthur wasn't his own embarrassment, it was that the boy could learn these kinds of East Asian etiquette rules and yet railed against each of Arthur's attempts to civilize his table manners according to European standards.

When Alfred left for a trip to the loo, Arthur said as much—remembering times when Kiku had made various complaints about the young American during the early days of his and Arthur's Anglo-Japanese Alliance.

The Asian man paused to level him a look, before looking away. Eventually, he shrugged and went off on the tangent: "America-san...is a welcome guest...in my home..."

"And it's a wonder I am," Alfred laughed as he caught the tail end of the conversation, "As I've committed every 'bashi' faux pas on the list."

Arthur's mind wandered as their conversation turned to children's television programming. Arthur took a sip of green tea and wished it was saké.

Japan mentioned, "Yes, I am looking forward to a new series of Super Sentai: _Uchu Sentai Kyuranger_."

Alfred leaned forward, "Oh?"

"There will be aliens and ninjas and androids-"

"I am totally down with that!" Alfred cheered. "Keep me in the loop!"

When they were on their way out, Arthur watched Alfred approach the chef who was hard at work with another order. Arthur started to reach to pull him back when—

Alfred clapped his hands once, "Gochisosama deshita!"

Arthur blinked a Kiku did the same though in a much quieter, more respectful voice.

As Kiku passed, he repeated lowly, for Arthur's ears, "He is a good guest."

Arthur realized then that he'd insulted the man by speaking poorly of Alfred earlier; well then, their relationship had certainly progressed.

Arthur smiled as he re-tied his scarf, "I look forward to his visits, also." Chaotic as they tended to be. He'd already circled various weekends he'd like the child to visit and was eager to see which ones Alfred would agree to.

More time together could only help their relationship and he needed to get to the bottom of this circus business.

* * *

Texas retired to his quarters with his recent delivery. He sat down on his narrow bed and tore open the pink envelope accompanying a See's Candy box. It was a kiddie Valentine's Day card with Angry Birds characters on the front.

He flipped it open.

 _Dearest Texas,_

 _I hope this finds you well and whole and that your return home will be swift and safe. I got you the soft center chocolate's you like best, I hope they didn't melt. I love you always, Big Bro. We'll do something fun when you get back._

 _Love,_

 _Al_

Texas took off his visor cap hat and wiped a gloved hand across his sweaty brow.

There was a knock on the metal door.

He straightened his white uniform.

"Yeah?"

Stuart pushed in.

"For you, Sir," Stuart stated as he set down a large, chocolate dipped Edible Arrangements basket on his writing desk.

The card read: _Feliz día de San Valentín!_ _Te amo mi querido hijo._

His face heated up. Trust Papi to embarrass him like that. Judging from the way one of the corners of Stuart's mouth kept twitching upwards, he bet Stuart had paraded it in front of the crew. Gah, dinner in the mess hall was gonna be a pain the ass tonight!

His cell phone, docked and charging, vibrated with an incoming text.

He looked over: _Hey Bro! Wanna Skype?_

Did he?! He immediately got his laptop set up and his spirits lifted as Alfred's image appeared on screen.

" _Happy Valentine's Day Big Bro!"_ Alfred grinned.

"Happy Valentine's Baby Bro!" Tex crowed back.

Stuart gave a wave to Alfred before leaving them for privacy's sake.

"I wish you were here," Texas sighed. Negotiating business and military matters was always a pain...especially where oil was concerned. And did Saudi Arabia have to look so pleased during the discussions? Not to mention the customs were so different and their U.S. ambassadors were so afraid Tex was gonna trip across a prayer mat, wear the wrong outfit, or verbally offend...that he was followed, tended, and assisted...friggin everywhere. Stuart was his _lenient_ advisor. Still, considering he was a non-Muslim and if he managed to stumble into a sacred area, would be legally allowed to be assaulted...yeah...he didn't mind the hand-holding.

The one thing Tex wouldn't budge on was his quarters. Despite multiple offers to come inland and receive the other Nation Personification's hospitality, Tex was staying on his warship. Where he could safely be American on his off-hours...could show off his elbows if he wanted.

He pulled his jacket off and hung it on a peg.

" _Me too; but they don't want me over there with tensions so high with the Yemeni. Plus, you're on a boat-"_

"Ship-"

Alfred's nose wrinkled, " _Whatever. And I get seasick."_

Texas pushed up his glasses, "I keep telling you they got pills for that now."

" _Yeah, yeah."_

"...I _**miiiisssss**_ you," Tex crooned.

Alfred smiled, " _I miss you too. My life...It's soooo quiet. It's creepy."_

Tex frowned, "Ha Ha." Yeah, he knew he was the big mouth out of the two of them, but did Alfred have to put it like that?

Alfred giggled and then his smile faded, " _It is though...how long do you think you'll be there?"_

"I'm trying to wrap up things as quick as possible. You got my word on that."

Alfred nodded and he smiled again, but his blue eye stayed sad.

"Matt treatin' you right?"

Alfred held up an action figure, " _Got me this."_

Tex crossed his arms, "That's not what I mean."

" _...I know…"_ He shook his head.

"That stubborn jackass. He thinks we're gonna let it all slide."

" _Tex-"_

Texas cracked his knuckles, "No Sir, I am keeping track. We got the Pansy Move Pacifier. We got the Ball Day Brooha. We got the Pass on Pirate Day. And we just...just got...lameass _**mean**_ floatin' in between."

Alfred ran a hand through his hair, " _Tex...you making it a big deal isn't going to-"_

"Well, you keeping a lid on it, ain't gonna change things-"

" _I don't want us to fight about this..."_

"How's your eye doing?" Tex asked pointedly.

" _S'alright."_

"Canada ask about it?" Tex pressed.

Alfred's lips pursed together.

"Yup, I thought so."

America cleared his throat and declared loudly, " _I see your dear Papi Spain gave you a large, obnoxiously affectionate gift."_

Tex flushed and angled his computer away so it wouldn't be in the background, "Why yes he did. Speaking of obnoxious parents; how's the _**Guv'nor**_?"

Alfred's eyebrow twitched, " _Daaad's fine. He's still a little shook up but-_ "

"I still can't believe you told _**him**_ before _**me**_!" Texas burst. "I'd've told you that you were fine!"

Alfred shrugged a shoulder, " _Timing."_

"Anything _else_ of incredible importance that you saw fit to tell foreign ears over miiiine?"

Alfred stiffened and Texas felt his stomach plummet. Damn, it was probably down near his shoes. What else had happened?

"Al…?" He mumbled. It felt like he may as well have been light years away rather than miles if Al was gonna lock him out of the loop.

Alfred swallowed hard, " _I...I wanted...to wait...until you got back. So you wouldn't be thinking about it."_

"Whatever it is, just say it."

" _..."_

Brown eyes narrowed, "Damn it. Say it."

Alfred sighed, " _They...lemme go."_

"Huh?"

Alfred squared his shoulders and focused on a point offscreen, " _I've been honorably discharged from service."_

Texas sat there—too stunned to swear. Yeah, he'd known it was a possibility, but he'd honestly thought they'd just give Al some special reserve status.

"Al…"

" _We knew this could happen,"_ Alfred remarked calmly as he laced his fingers together.

"Al...you don't gotta be prim with me."

Al's bottom lip trembled.

"Ally…"

His brother sucked in a breath through his teeth.

God, Texas wished he could travel through the screen and get there.

It broke his heart to hear the soft raspy: " _I wish I knew where to go from here._ "

* * *

Alfred blew on his airport hot chocolate. It would probably take an hour before it was fit for consumption.

Yesterday's lunch excursion had been pretty amusing; Dad sucked at using chopsticks. He also seemed surprised that America and Japan were buddies.

When they'd retired to the hotel for the afternoon (cuz England was cranky and tired and Japan was ready to meditate alone) he'd had to explain to _Mother_ England that Japan was pretty much his "Okaasan" whenever he visited the island nation.

In the overture of their relationship, Japan had been naturally distant with him (which he totally understood—Isolation had its perks) and then there was war which...yeah...strained things…

But during the occupation and restoration period following WWII, they ended up learning how to get along. When Japan realized just how much younger America was than him, their dynamic changed. Curiously, his physical change the previous year hadn't thrown the man at all.

When Alfred had asked him about it, Kiku had remarked that it "seemed about right."

Which...stung a teensy bit cuz...he didn't think of himself as being seven "mentally."

Still, compared to Japan, he was a kiddo and it made the elder nation's treatment of him more understandable. From the 1950s on, Kiku made it a point to act as Alfred's host family whenever he was visiting and, despite being a rather small man, could be crazy fierce and protective.

One time, years back, Alfred taken the wrong train in Hokkaido and gotten lost and was about to get mugged, when Kiku came in like a ninja and went samurai on their asses.

Dude had tracked him down out of a deep sense of duty. It was almost worth the quiet, serious scolding he got afterwards. Kiku had warned him that morning that Alfred was not yet adept enough at reading kanji to travel alone. Alfred had proven him right.

Even now, Japan (who was usually mild and amiable) told off Japanese citizens who swarmed the American in the streets for photos or dived into elevators with them hoping to practice their English.

When Alfred told Arthur how he was often greeted with: "This is a pen" England turned a weird shade of red and changed the subject.

Alfred frowned at all the maple-leaved souvenirs lining the airport shop's walls. Tex wasn't crazy about red and white unless there was blue.

He was gonna have to nix this part of the plan and order something awesome online. His brother deserved something really great...considering how long he'd let him blubber on their last Skype chat. He'd gotten so emotional...He'd had to move himself and his laptop into the bathroom and turn the fan on for fear that his caterwauling would rouse Arthur from his nap.

"Looking for something, eh?" Canada asked. Damnation! He could sneak up on people. Thank God Alfred wasn't holding anything! He'd have dropped it for sure.

The Canadian had a business trip scheduled for France and he and Francis were booked for the same flight.

Alfred glanced him over. His brother seemed...okay...but Alfred still felt a little uneasy. It reminded him of the 1820s, where Mathieu wouldn't say anything about 1812...but Alfred could feel the anger. Which was something...because Al didn't usually go out of his way to take in the "atmosphere."

He looked behind his brother to the entrance where Arthur and Rhys were standing and talking. They were heading back to the U.K. since Parliament had them both working on a project.

Japan's flight had left the previous night and he had texted America goodbye. He'd also included an ambiguous invitation that America could complain about England to him should he wish to do so. Which was odd...because Japan didn't usually like grudge discussions. Maybe Alfred had made it into a new ring of the Uchi-soto dynamic!

America had also spotted Germany and Italy that morning when they first entered the airport.

 _Alfred was focused on the floor—playing balance beam with the grout lines and letting Arthur guide him with gentle tugs, when he noticed Germany and Italy._

 _Germany seemed even more uptight than usual; he and England stared each other down while the Italian and the American sent each other a smile and a wave. It was Prussia that was a total butt._

 _He immediately spotted that Arthur and Alfred were holding hands. He pointed and made a loud, "Awwwwww. Dat is so cute! Guess the rebellion is over!?"_

 _Embarrassed, Alfred tried to pull away, but Arthur held him fast._

" _Daaad," he whined._

" _America," the British nation spoke firmly without looking at him. "Do as I do."_

 _With his free hand he flipped the bird at Prussia and Alfred cheerfully did the same. It was so freaking rare that anyone got England's blessing to be rude—America had to pounce on it._

 _Germany swiftly dragged his brother off, and the three former Axis Personifications disappeared into the crowd._

Alfred stared up at the fluorescent lights as one flickered.

"Alfred?"

Violet eyes were watching him closely.

Alfred fidgeted and looked around again, "Uh...I was just...looking to see if I could find something for Tex."

Canada perked up, "Well, there are mugs and keychains and hats and sweatshirts-"

"Tex doesn't really do sweatshirts."

"There's flannel."

Time to rephrase this: "...what...do you think _**Texas**_ would use...consistently...here?"

Mathieu seemed to take the challenge to heart and scrutinized the entire shop. He returned with a moose-antlered beer opener.

"What aboot this?"

Alfred blinked and smiled in spite of himself, "Ya know...that's just weird enough, he'll probably use it."

After making a purchase and enduring the cashier's stare of disapproval first at him and then at his brother, they went back to the group.

England, France, and Wales had claimed a bench. The former two were snarking lightly at each other as Canada sat down between them. Wales was reading a new paperback book and seemingly ignoring the world around him, at least until he dropped a dry comment now and then.

Alfred tapped a light-up sneaker on the ground and watched the lights race. Arthur had gotten him a new pair back in January, when he'd made it clear he wanted to hunt down the one he'd lost after the accident.

His gaze traveled over the nations seated together.

There was something amicable in all the back-and-forth. Like him and Texas riding out into the wilderness and they decided to tease each other about how Texas couldn't darn a sock to save his life and how some of Alfred's favorite Shakespearean plays were snore fests.

America's phone went off with an alarm—warning him that his flight's departure was coming up fast.

He chewed at his bottom lip, everyone was getting along and he was gonna have to be the first one to leave…

He marched over and put his hands on his hips.

"Wanna go to Vegas?" He asked them loudly. At their blank stares, he realized that the tourist spot wasn't really suitable for him anymore and amended it with, "How bout Disneyland? Disney World's fun? Whaddya say? My treat? All of us? My treat, I swear!"

There were smiles and chuckles and he received a few hair ruffles and "I wish-es" and "far too much to do" and business…

The moment passed…

He squeezed himself between Arthur and Rhys, barely followed the conversation, and burnt his tongue on his hot chocolate. When his phone rang with his second warning, he lingered in all the gushy goodbyes—the warm hugs and nice words and tender smiles.

When his phone rang the third time, he left and boarded his plane.

* * *

Arthur leaned back into an uncomfortable airport terminal chair. He moved this way and that, desperate to set his mind and body at ease. Nothing worked.

Francis and Mathieu had left a half hour earlier.

"Rhys?" he finally asked as he looked over to where his brother was seated across from him.

"Yes?"

He felt his cheeks warm. God, this was going to sound childish, "Why can't I relax?"

Rhys didn't even look up, "You're a father. You didn't get to deliver Alfred home personally."

Arthur sighed unhappily, "Yes. He promised to text me when he was home safely."

Rhys nodded.

He shifted again, "God, am I that much of a worrywart?"

Rhys turned a page of his book, "Yes."

Arthur crossed his arms, "...why do you think he invited us all to go to a theme park?"

"He's spontaneous. He's seven. He's American. Choose your pick."

Arthur frowned, "...but why now?"

Rhys's brows furrowed and he frowned down at his current page, "What do you mean?"

"I mean, yes. He will always want to be off having fun, but...why would he suddenly invite us _**all**_ to go there? He was serious. Even though, it would disrupt everyone's schedules even his own-"

Hazel eyes locked on green and they had the same thought: He had no schedule.

Arthur's mouth opened in an 'O' of realization.

He'd been dismissed from his military, had completed his diplomatic duty by going to Canada's meeting, and...now had nothing else in the queue.

"But wait…" Arthur frowned. "...Texas…"

Rhys closed his book, "Is out of the country. Hawaii is out of state. Alaska is out of state…"

Arthur released a hard breath; America was going home to an empty house. He remembered the tear-streaked little face...

" _He's gonna leave me! He's gonna leave me!_

 _Like you left me and_

 _I'll be trapped in a house all by myself and-"_

All alone…

Little Roanoke wandered the woods…

All alone...his Thirteen Colonies sat in a wooden cabin while England set sail.

All alone, the young nation languished after 1812...recovering from an injured eye.

Cut off from the world...away from those who loved him…

That spontaneous invitation was a desperate attempt to ward off loneliness.

No. Arthur would not let history repeat.

He turned to his brother, "Rhys, I need you to tell Parliament I'll be late."

"I already messaged them."

It was a hassle negotiating a ticket exchange for Richmond and once he was in Richmond it was difficult to get a taxi in the worsening weather...and then there was the traffic to deal with...and Rhys...who'd come along for some reason. And Alfred had yet to text him anything or return his calls.

It was past 8 pm by the time Arthur was crunching through snow to the door; a challenging feat given that the walkway wasn't shoveled, his luggage was heavy, his feet kept sliding on ice, and no porch lights lit up the way.

The Virginian Colonial's windows shone black in the gloom. The frosted bulbs of streetlights along the road did little to illuminate the house. He tried to ignore the foreboding air and all the Gothic literature he'd read regarding mysterious, dark houses.

A harsh wind was picking up as he fumbled with the front door's lock. He swore as the wind crashed it against the wall, but there was no reaction from within the house. All was silent and dark within.

Arthur was uneasy as they crossed the threshold with their luggage. Was he even here?

...Yes…

Yes, he sensed him, "Hellooo? We had a change of plans...Alfred, are you here?"

He flipped on light switches and watched at his breath fogged in front of him. He turned the heater on to combat the permeating chill.

"Alfred?" He called. He continued turning on lights as he went along.

Rhys closed and latched the door and sped over. He joined his brother in turning on lights.

It was in the living room that they discovered a sizeable blanket fort that used the room's ceiling fan to help hold it up...which was a horrible idea. If there was too much weight it could bring the whole thing crashing down.

His paternal sense went into overdrive upon seeing an electrical cord coming out of the blanket monstrosity like a tail.

Rhys was half a step behind Arthur and peering over his shoulder when the Briton lifted a flap of blanket to enter the flimsy structure. He stubbed his toe on a flashlight and nearly hit Rhys when he kicked it aside. He had to stoop to get close to the Alfred-sized lump at one side. He knelt down awkwardly on cushions of varying height. He blinked when Rhys flanked Alfred's other side.

"Wot? You think he's going to bolt?"

"I don't know," Rhys murmured.

Arthur felt hard wires on the blanket and groaned, "Ugh, I knew it. Electric blanket. Look for the OFF switch. Dammit boy, this is a fire hazard…"

He peeled the electric blanket back and found Alfred asleep and slightly overheated. His little face was flushed pink.

He had a mess of stuffed animal toys around him.

"Like a pharaoh's tomb," Rhys remarked as he took in all the crap strewn around: Alfred's phone, his laptop, a glossy book of American Presidents, a kazoo...

Under one arm was Hop and cradled to his little chest was...an album. Curious, Arthur slid it away and opened it: it only had one page in its binder clips...and…

Arthur swallowed hard.

It had a picture of himself and Alfred from their recent Winter Holiday and a small oval portrait of Texas from the 1800s.

He set the book aside and took a shaky breath. He looked around again and his nose crinkled. There was a box of twinkies and a bag of croutons. There was a six-pack of soda with two cans missing and a tub of licorice. On a whim, Arthur removed a glove and reached in...hard licorice. Old. Dried out.

He picked up the Hostess Box: expired.

Deciding not to wake the child up, Arthur crawled his way out of the tent. He made sure the fan wasn't about to come down, and then went to the pantry and stared. It was woefully understocked. And two emergency jugs of water were frozen solid.

Alfred's time away in winter, his brief return, his inability to use a car, his lack of immediate family being present, and then a hasty trip to Mathieu's meeting meant he hadn't had time to fetch suitable groceries. And apparently, he was trying to cut costs by not leaving his heater on while he was gone on trips.

Though why he hadn't turned it back on upon returning home...

Arthur found on the counter, written in garish Crayola colors, a piece of paper titled: _Master Plan._

It denoted a list of food items he could consume for maximum calorie intake and when the Winter Storm, Olympia, would likely lighten up and he could call for groceries.

Arthur frowned as he looked at the delivery service number penned in green ink.

The child didn't want them travelling in bad weather...for his sake…

O to be a Hero.

Arthur pulled his cellphone from his pocket and dialed; time for the "British Villain" to put in an order.

"There's soup and chili and canned fruit," Rhys noted—having followed Arthur's lead and decided to take inventory of the kitchen.

Arthur nodded, "Pick ones that don't require water; I'm certain the pipes are frozen."

Rhys checked and a tiny trickle of water came from the kitchen sink.

Arthur sighed, "I'll look for a hair dryer in a little while." The toilets were probably in peril too.

Rhys bustled about setting pots on the stove and opening cans, as Arthur made what he thought was a reasonable selection of food items to tide them over for a day or two while he figured matters out.

Yes, he'd had to be a bit stern as he made his order and insisted that he wanted it as soon as possible—snowstorm be damned but...he thought he'd been civil. They weren't coming out until morning, he was allowed to be put-out.

At least until Rhys gave him a disapproving look as he stirred a pot, "Arthur. Talk to me."

"Can't just let him starve and freeze to death-"

"Arthur-"

The Briton heaved a sigh, "I can't."

The Welshman nodded, "Tell me you'll make an appointment then-"

"I just can't!" Arthur bit out. "God, I wish I could but-but-but-"

Rhys peered into his pot, "There's no shame in requiring assist-"

"That's _**not**_ why I can't..."

Rhy's head cocked curiously to the side and he turned back around to study his brother.

Arthur took a seat at the kitchen's island. He steepled his fingers.

He looked over his shoulder to see if Alfred had stirred yet. But all remained silent and still save the bubbling pot and the howling wind outside.

Even still...he hardly dared to voice his desire at all. He hadn't yet found a way to communicate what he wanted to Alfred without coming across as domineering.

Rhys seemed to sense his reluctance because he came closer and leaned in so Arthur wouldn't have to raise his voice.

Arthur swallowed nervously.

"I want custody," he murmured under his breath. "And if I'm not in tiptop shape, they could turn me down."

* * *

Read & Review Please! : DDD


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or Duraflame. Or _King Arthur's All-Purpose Flour_ which has been " _Baking with joy since 1790."_

 **Warning:** Some profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). In which many things bubble under the surface, and Arthur wades out into it...and Rhys may be the sanest man in the room.

 **AN:** Aced my Middle English Project! : DDD Yeah! Woo! Boring Eng Lit Composition Research Paper, here I come! In other news, THANK YOU for your reviews. I've been reading them daily as I've pieced together this chapter. Hope you enjoy!

 **Chapter 5: Fortress of Blanketude**

* * *

Arthur swallowed nervously as he awaited a response. The chill of the room made his nose start to run and he fished out a handkerchief.

Rhys returned to the hissing pot.

Arthur followed him tentatively, "Well?"

Rhys stirred the pot and tested a spoonful.

Arthur frowned and put his handkerchief away, "Rhys?"

"I think you'll find it problematic. America fought long and hard for his sov-"

England nearly choked on his mirth and he slapped a hand on the counter, "Ha! Good God, do you honestly think I'm in the shape to play Colonizer?! That I've got the wherewithal for that?! No. His people were a handful as thirteen colonies, now they span from the East Coast to the West and I have more than enough issues at home to contend with. No, I have NO desire to govern America and his sprawling empire of red tape. I want to raise Alfred."

"..." Rhys blinked.

The blond frowned, "I-I don't want to leave it all...unfinished. I feel...responsible for...this. There...there were so many things I didn't get a chance to teach him. Important things I intended to...but I didn't...because I thought I had more time. You see? How to care for oneself, one's household...how to set boundaries with one's government. Who to contact, where to go, should your ruler be...violent...Some of his presidents...they drank so much, I fretted...even now I...and then seeing him struggle now...seeing _this_." He waved a hand around at the house and felt his throat close up. "He deserves far better than this..."

Rhys gave his verdict: "Take a year. Get counseling."

"A year?!" Arthur spluttered aghast. He gestured to the living room, "He could've set himself on fire! And...I don't want to be questioned as mentally... _weakened_ by the recent events-"

"If anything it will prove that you have more emotional investment in Alfred's well-being. The idea of him being harmed creates deep distress. His government's complacency-"

"You think his government will challenge me directly for custody?" Arthur's voice lowered into something deeper and more aggressive.

Wales shrugged, "They could. They could select a personification already within his borders to act as a guardian. They could select a human. Worst case: they might consider placing him in a facility to educate him."

"God forbid," Arthur shuddered as he immediately envisioned some dystopian research center that acted more as an asylum or a jail than a boarding school.

"However," Hazel eyes appraised him sternly. "Your actions could very easily open a Pandora's Box of Possibilities. By being a foreign entity applying for custodialship, you set a precedent. Other former Colonial Powers could step forward. The U.N. could step forward as being vested in America's future. You will need to prove yourself as the _**uncontested**_ , best-suited candidate for the task. You must _**win**_ decisively."

"So...you...you'll support me in this?" Arthur asked him directly.

Rhys returned his attention to the soup, "...I don't know. What does Alfred think of this?"

Green eyes turned venomous, "You-you-you don't know? You don't know?! I am your _**brother**_. That's _**my**_ child! We need to be togeth-"

Rhys set the spoon in the pot and turned off the burner before facing his younger brother.

On his fingers he ticked off what Arthur must do, "Get counseling for your terrors and emotional disturbance. Anger management for your temper. And address your alcoholism. Get Alfred's blessing following a full disclosure of what living with you would entail. Create a contract of sorts between you with ways for him to leave should he wish. Then file."

Arthur lips curled; that was NOT what he wanted to hear.

Before he could argue, he heard Alfred call out, "Texas?"

The child emerged from his haphazardly constructed fort and blearily shuffled into the kitchen. He rubbed his uninjured eye and sniffed at the air, "Texas?"

Arthur forced a smile so it would carry in his voice, "No love, it's us."

"Oh," the American yawned. "Hi…" Alfred hefted himself up onto a barstool chair at the kitchen's granite island.

He scrubbed at an eye while Rhys set a steaming bowl and spoon down in front of him.

"Thanks."

He squeezed his eyes shut, mumbled a prayer and then dug in.

Rhys served Arthur next.

Arthur ate a brisk pace—hungrier than even he was aware. Or perhaps his anger made him want to finish quickly and remove himself from Rhys's presence.

Though at least Arthur wasn't slurping...Alfred had gotten flecks of soup on his clothes, the placemat, and the floor.

Alfred finished, licked his lips, slid his bowl back, and laid his head down on the placemat with a soft _FWUMP_.

Well, at least with him being asleep over here, Arthur wouldn't have to step over him in the other room.

When Arthur finished his soup, he took down the blanket tent and began extricating items from the twisted folds.

Electronics went in one pile. Unexpired food went back in the pantry. Rubbish went in the bin. He flipped through the President book and noted that George Washington and Andrew Jackson were bookmarked. He made a face and set it and the photo album on the coffee table that had been pushed against a wall.

"My Fortress of Blanketude," Alfred mourned as he shuffled into the room—having jerked back to semi-wakefulness.

Arthur sighed, "Rhys?"

His brother threw several empty soup cans into the bin, and replied, "Yes?"

"If you can make some suitable bedding from…" Arthur gestured to the mess. "This. I'll try and thaw some pipes out."

Alfred frowned at him and when the Briton drew near enough tugged at the bottom edge of Arthur's coat, "That tent was gonna stave off the cold."

Arthur frowned. Despite having the heater on, the room was still deathly cold and Alfred was shivering. Their breaths continued to mist between them.

Arthur came close and tucked a blonde tuft of hair behind the child's ear, "This is important, Alfred."

The boy blinked at him lethargically and Arthur sincerely hoped it was just exhaustion and not the onset of hypothermia.

"Where do you keep emergency firewood?"

"...Shed."

Arthur nodded determinedly; he was going to have to locate a flashlight and make his way through the elements-

"Wait!" Alfred caught Arthur's sleeve. "Emergency wood... _emergency_...there," He pointed to a lower cabinet of the Entertainment Center.

Arthur immediately investigated and found several _Duraflame_ logs. It would last them the night. The next day (when the temperature would likely be higher) he could go out to the shed.

"Perfect. Nice and close, and they're kept good and dry. That's my boy," He ruffled Alfred's hair. "You remembered that." Arthur had spent a good time of their colonial years drilling how important it was for his colonies to always have dry wood and kindling on hand.

Arthur gladly carried one to the chimney and then prepped the fireplace. He opened the flute and apologized as Alfred shivered harder at the draft.

"Hold on, pet."

He retrieved a butane lighter from the kitchen and ignited the corners of the packaged log.

Once the flames had enveloped it and heat began to radiate outward, Arthur slid the mesh firescreen across it. They didn't need anything tumbling out.

Arthur guided Alfred over and wrapped a blanket tightly around the boy, "Now you can sit right here. Right here and no closer. Else an errant corner of your blanket or, God Forbid, _**you**_ could catch. Understand?"

There was a tired nod.

Good. He'd lost far too many people in ages past because of carelessness where fire was concerned. When he thought of all the flammable hairstyles and clothing that went up from getting too close to a candle or kipping near the fireplace…

He flinched from memories.

"Arthur?" Rhys remarked. "You're standing on a quilt I want to use."

Arthur moved. Though he was greatly irritated by his brother's unsympathetic reaction to his desires...they came to their usual silent truce. In true Kirkland fashion, they ignored their issues for the moment.

Despite, their family's often explosive, resentful, dysfunctional interactions with each other...they'd spent plenty of nights huddled in roundhouses, barracks, caves, and woods as storms raged...this was no different.

The brothers took turns heating pipes in the basement with a blow dryer and keeping the fireplace lit. They also set up a small electric heater near the water meter and wrapped towels around pipes after they thawed.

Rhys had scoured the linen closets and found more blankets and quilts for the Living Room. The rest of the house was simply too cold to even think about breaking off into separate rooms.

It was a little past one in the morning when their hard work paid off; the little heater was unplugged, the fireplace doors were closed, and they got to settle in beside Alfred.

* * *

6 AM found Alfred flitting about the kitchen with a cellphone at his ear. He frowned at its generic black color—it was still the emergency one he'd been issued in December. He hadn't had the opportunity to replace it with a sleeker, more personalized one.

He set it on the counter on loudspeaker and then pulled on oven mitts.

"And I'm totally unprepared to host anybody—I mean thank God I still had some Baker's Yeast in the freezer," Alfred opened the oven and pulled a tray out setting it down on decorative iron coolers.

He closed the oven door as a Texan drawl came across _: "Gawd! You! I tell you, ya have to leave the heater on at, well, at least 55 degrees with one faucet tricklin' or the pipes'll freeze. Your house is drafty as hell."_

Alfred's cheeks puffed, "That image makes NO sense. And my house is NOT drafty. We're just in a snow storm right now. And heating it when no one's home is a total waste of money-"

" _ **YOU'RE**_ _HOME!"_ Texas hollered.

Alfred frowned, "I was gonna deal with it _**today**_! When I was more rested, and less depressed. I was gonna figure out the threshold temp to keep up the-look, I just needed to get one corner of the house semi-habitable; kitchen, the bathroom-nearest-the-kitchen, and the living room to hunker down by the fireplace. Laundry could wait. Upstairs could wait."

" _You are so lucky it was them and not me that found you. God, you're like one of those dumb Survivalist sitcoms. Where an idiot goes out into the desert to document how they suffer!"_

Alfred's jaw dropped, "Dude, harsh."

" _Dude, dumb. I'd've thrashed you for leaving the stuff off. I mean it's one thing if there's a power outage. It's another thing entirely-"_

Alfred pulled the mitts off, and got butter from the fridge, "I thought I was dreaming them coming over. A lot of my time with Osha was surreal like that. And I'm thinking about us, man. I gotta trim the fat somewhere. I got let go! I've lost a major source of income!"

" _Jesus Al, you'll still have your pension. You're just freaking out cuz it's a change. You pendulum swing like this. Al, we're good. Remember, we got investments? We're gonna sell off some crap this year."_

Alfred closed the fridge door harder than usual, "Dude, I got this house. I got the flat in New York. I got the Virginia cabin. I've got the condemned Hall. And if Hawaii forgets to pay her utilities again that crap goes to me and I'll get dinged for it."

" _Kay. We get you off the hook for her estate. We rent the New York apartment a couple months each year when you don't think you'll need it. The cabin pays for itself, Al. It's a historic site. It's got tax exemptions. Schools flock there for colonial field trips. It hosts historical group bingos and dress-up reenactments and the cafe part is rakin' it in. I told you our recipes would kick butt and they have. Ya don't wander around the whole frickin' U.S.A. and not learn what's tasty. Stop worrying about the cabin. It'll outlast us all."_

"And the Hall?" Alfred brought up as he raked a bit of butter over the top of the fresh, hot loaf of bread. He nodded in satisfaction as it melted.

" _Ehhh,"_ Texas shrugged, " _You're gonna have to figure out that one with your dad."_

"Excuse me?!"

" _It's his pet project. He made it Alfie Jr. while you were gone. God, he babied all your stuff, Al."_

"What does that even meeeean?"

" _All your stuff became hallowed ground, ya shoulda seen him freak when I cracked one baseboard of crown molding with a rake-"_

The knife Alfred had been about to use to slice the bread, went up aggressively, "You son of a bitch, you chipped my crown molding? Where? Which house?"

" _Ugh...the one you're in right now. And now I know who you get that from. Chillax, Arthur had it repaired. That day."_

"Why were you carrying a rake?" Alfred demanded as he sawed into the bread.

" _Stop worrying about it."_

"O. My. God." Alfred glanced around at the floorboards for holes and cracks. "Was there a rat?"

" _NO. Now. Stop it."_

Alfred arranged the slices on a platter and walked back over to the refrigerator. He stared hard, "Can't believe this. I don't have jam. I don't have any freaking jam." He stalked back over to the cell phone. "Why don't I have jam? Texas?"

" _We ate it. Soooo sorry."_

"I don't have any preserves. None. How did this happen? I always have-"

" _Uhh...Al?"_

"What?!" He snapped.

" _Um...you okay?"_

"Course I'm okay. I'm just complaining. I mean, I am _so_ understocked. I can scarcely believe-"

" _Hey Al...when's your busiest canning month?"_

"Canning or pickling?"

" _...both...er I mean canning."_

"July. Duh." He smiled. "I use the happy afterglow of the 4th to recharge me and then I dive into cherries, then strawberries, then blueberries, raspberries, apricots, and peaches. Then I go on a second round and dehydrate the next batches of all these things for those trail mix and granola recipes you guys like so-"

" _Al?"_

"Mmhmm?"

" _Buddy, where were you last July?"_

"Whaddya mean I was...right. Right," He sucked in a breath. "Kay." Funny how you can just...block those sort of things out...

" _Al?_

"You're right," He smiled blandly.

" _Baby bro, you okay?"_

"Yup," His voice cracked.

" _Cuz it kinda sounds like-like you're_ _ **not**_ _okay."_

"...it's just inconvenient," He murmured as pulled forward a can of pears and rummaged around for a can opener.

" _Not having jam? Or being kidnapped?"_

"...she's still writing me…" Alfred admitted.

" _Oh?"_

Alfred swallowed hard, "She's glad I'm gonna work at opening the portals…"

" _Yeah?"_

Alfred's head bowed, "...it just…"

" _Yeah, I'm listenin' bro."_

He twisted the can opener and watched it bite into the metal, "...it...really...pisses me off...when someone's only happy with me when I'm doing what _**they**_ want done…"

" _I think everyone feels that way now and then."_

He stared into the open can and detachedly counted how many fruit slices were in there so he could divvy them up between three small bowls, "...I'm _**so**_ angry...and the more I remember of...her then…I...plus our past and…." He squeezed the handles of the can opener. "I get _**angrier**_...and she wants me to come visit. Says she knows stuff about portals-"

" _Al. For the love of God, and all that is good. Don't. Go."_

"..."

" _Al, you know I don't wanna control you. You know that. But dear God, Al, don't go unless you can go from a place of strength. And please, don't feel like ya gotta go it alone."_

"...it crossed my mind," Alfred admitted.

" _I know it did, but please-"_

"I'm not gonna go-"

" _Phew, thank-"_

"I don't think I can be trusted," He stared down at the ruined can opener. He'd bent it all out of shape. He blinked hard. "I think I'd lose my temper and-" His breath caught as he realized his father and uncle were now very much awake and standing in the kitchen—their eyes wide.

" _Al, you there?"_

"Yup. Yup, but I gotta call ya back. It's breakfast time."

" _Alright. I love you. You take care now, ya hear?"_

* * *

Rhys's gaze slid to his brother. There was a deeply pained expression on Arthur's face.

And Rhys was a bit ashamed to find himself taken aback that Arthur was displaying more maturity than he'd anticipated. He'd fully expected to see some flicker of triumph on Arthur's face at hearing Osha fall from her pedestal.

Instead, he seemed...gutted…

He was upset…that Alfred...was hurt…

Interesting…

Alfred might've been the one to lose a tooth and meet a milestone, but Rhys now found himself wondering if Arthur would be the one aging. Come to think of it, Arthur had been twenty-three a _**long**_ time.

Alfred's smile was uneven as he greeted them, "G'morning. I...made you breakfast."

"It looks delicious," Arthur answered without looking at all.

"Thank you for your efforts," Rhys offered.

"Look, I'm not up for beating around the bush...you guys...heard a lot of that call, huh?" Alfred muttered as he pushed the platter of bread slices toward them.

"Yes," Rhys answered candidly. "We did try and alert you several times and move into your current line of sight but your eye stayed downward."

"So yeah, I got some issues...anyway," Alfred quipped as he made his way over to the fridge and pulled out a glass beverage dispenser. Arthur immediately moved forward to help him and lifted it onto the counter. "I mixed apple juice, cranberry juice, and ginger ale...it's Pilgrim Punch...nonalcoholic...unfortunately, for us all. For some reason all of my stashes are gone."

"Eire and Alba," Rhys replied knowingly. They had a sixth sense when it came to finding liquor. Rhys was almost certain if he handed them a witching stick in the midst of America's Appalachian forests, they'd find moonshine.

Considering the meagerness of the ingredients, Rhys was surprised to find the taste so pleasing, "You fry dough well."

"Tried and true, county fair winner," Alfred boasted. "This is my funnel cake. I also win with my Sweet Virginia Cherry Pie, _**several**_...of my bread recipes, and pumpkin scones, and I also make a lot of very highly regarded cakes." At their continued stares, his cheeks puffed. "I'm a baker! Plus if there's no entry fee and a cash prize; hell yeah, I'm gonna enter. Though s' harder now when everything's televised and newspaper reported, but there's still some backwoodsy ones I go to now and then."

Rhys supposed he could believe it; his nephew was rather competitive. And if this was the way it manifested itself, he could support it. There were far worse ways to awaken than to the enticing smell of bread, pottage, and fried dough. Australia and New Zealand had loved to wrestle in the early morning hours and hearing something porcelain break was NOT the best way to start the day.

"What's in the slow cooker?" Arthur asked.

"Vegetables. I'm...I'm gonna try and make a stew for us with...with what I've got…thanks for thawing the pipes out...everything would've been much harder to do this morning without...water."

"You're very welcome," Arthur replied. "I only wish you'd have told us back at the airport you were having troubles."

Alfred's eye widened as realization set in, "How...how did…you know to come?"

"Arthur had a bad feeling," Rhys explained.

"You came here over a bad feeling?" Alfred raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

"You didn't answer any of my calls, either," Arthur replied sending the child a stern look.

The child flushed, "Sorry."

Arthur's fork fidgeted uncertainly, "I...I had one...much more intense than this...of course...but...I-I had a bad feeling before you went off to...to Calm Water Clinics."

Alfred stiffened.

"But I thought...I was being...ridiculous...I thought, you'd think me a Mother Hen creating scenarios...but...after...all of that...I'm listening to these feelings more..."

"Oh…" Alfred replied with a hard, unreadable expression.

"The bread's very good," Arthur complimented—returning them to a normalcy which Alfred pounced on.

"Thank you," He steered the conversation to frosting and all the different kinds of flowers he could pipe and which ones had to be refrigerated before you could add them to the cake.

Rhys dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.

It was curious; seeing how Victorianism influenced Americans. In the U.K. all sorts of customs and rituals were erected. Even now, though the barriers were eroding they were still present in what one should and shouldn't discuss. Being overly emotional was embarrassing...

Americans were interesting because they feigned that they weren't prim or private. They spoke loudly and dramatically about their opinions...on things that mattered to them in obtuse ways.

And in the loud, blustery, distracting silence—tucked private things away.

* * *

Arthur readjusted his gloves and gripped the snow shovel more tightly. He and Rhys took on the more laborious task of clearing the walkway while Alfred sat ready with the salt.

The Briton held in his contempt for the chore. If he complained about his back too much the child would insist on taking over and struggling with the adult-sized equipment.

Arthur's groceries arrived not long after they finished and Alfred was a mixture of surprised, agitated, relieved, and appreciative as Arthur signed off for it.

The child was a whirlwind of opening and closing fridge and pantry doors as he shelved the welcome supplies into their proper spaces.

It amused Arthur to see someone so enthused as they poured new flour into a tupperware container.

When he commented on it, the boy stuck his tongue out roguishly.

"Don't think I didn't catch what you did here," the boy pointed at the discarded wrapping: _King Arthur's All-Purpose Flour_.

"Baking with _Joy_ since 1790," Arthur read off before going to the more pleasing detail. "And it's American made-"

"Stop making fun of me and my love of lore!"

Arthur laughed and poked the child's puffed up cheeks.

Alfred's pottage crockpot experiment grew more appetizing with chunks of beef, cheese, and milk stirred in. Arthur now found himself looking forward to lunch.

While the food simmered, Alfred gathered games and movies and piled them together, "Okay, this is what we got."

Arthur stared at the heap.

Alfred chewed his bottom lip, "I'm having satellite issues." He demonstrated by turning the television on. It gave a 'No Signal' error message. "The weather might be disrupting it or...there might be ice. I could climb up and-"

"I do hope you're joking," Arthur responded flatly.

Little feet that were triple-socked (because Arthur wouldn't let him outside to help with clearing the snow if they weren't) kicked at the floor, "Don't want you to be bored. You had all those nice things for me at your place," Alfred murmured as he stared out the window at the snow covered grass. "I don't even have TV...and the internet's wonky right now."

Arthur reached over and tugged a wheat colored lock of hair, "Sweet, you don't have to entertain me."

Alfred looked back.

Arthur smiled, "I'm family."

Most of the games and movies were returned to their proper places and the wooden coffee table was cleared so they could make a large puzzle.

Rhys was content in a chair he'd moved near the fireplace. He had a pile of books in a tower beside him. Arthur noticed that several of them were small pocket-sized fairytale books. He'd watched curiously as Rhys removed them from his carryon bag.

At first the material seemed strangely childish, but then Arthur realized his brother had packed them on the off-chance hope that Alfred would be interested at some point during the Valentine's Weekend and that it would've given uncle and nephew something to bond over.

It was hard to remain annoyed with his eldest brother, when he kept doing kind things like that for Alfred. Arthur would need to bring about a reading session somehow.

The fire crackled merrily and showered the room in a pleasant orange glow.

The three of them had moved a large stockpile of wood indoors earlier that morning. While the heater _**was**_ on, the inner temperature of the house increased by slow degrees. If they wanted to remain comfortable, a continuous fire was essential. Even now they were still bundled up in multiple layers.

Arthur moved a softer pillow under his knees. His body was a mess of aches. He'd need to hunt down a heating pad soon for his joints. A nap wouldn't hurt either. He was exhausted.

Alfred grinned from the other side of the table and the gap in his smile made Arthur's heart melt.

Arthur was working on a corner of the puzzle when he made his overture, "Sweet? I...I was wondering..."

"Yeah?" Alfred was concentrating on dividing pieces by their colors.

Arthur gently tapped a corner of his current puzzle piece on the table's surface,"There was so much we planned to do in December that we never had a chance to embark on."

Alfred looked up and nodded solemnly, "We didn't get to ice skate or ride on a sleigh or eat peppermint gingerbread together."

Arthur blinked, "No...we didn't, did we?"

"I haven't even made a snowman, yet!" the child confided in a loud whisper.

"The travesty," Arthur deadpanned.

Alfred giggled and set both elbows on the table.

Arthur cleared his throat, "What I mean to say is, our Magic Lessons were delayed. There's so much that we've only begun to explore."

Alfred nodded and the interest in his cornflower eye gave Arthur confidence.

Heart in his throat, his words rushed out, "I would very much like for you to continue your magical studies with me in London."

Alfred blinked, "R-really?"

"That is if you're not too busy, here."

"Oh...well...uh, I-I could probably move a-a few things around," The boy was trying to save face, but his cheeks had gone rather red. "C-congress would understand that I've responsibilities...elsewhere that I...and...good opportunity for international diplomacy… and I can attend meetings virtually or on the phone."

The wind howled and branches hit against the windows; Alfred subconsciously moved closer his father.

Arthur rested a gentle hand on the child's shoulders, "Of course; I'd hate to steal you from your duties. We'll make sure that you have all of your needs met. I'll give you access to my fax machine and copier printer, and I'll find another filing cabinet with lock and key for your full, personal use."

Alfred straightened—his head tilting up, his shoulders moving back, "You...you wouldn't mind my using your office for my affairs?"

If Arthur could show the child that they could live harmoniously together, it'd be easier to gain his "blessing" as Rhys had put it.

"Of course not."

Alfred scanned his face suspiciously, "...Are you certain, we'll both fit? That it won't be incommodious to either of us?"

Incommodious... _incommodious_...

What a vocabulary gem! A diamond!

Arthur looked over to see Rhys had put his book down to stare at them and then mouthed the word at Arthur.

One blue eye was fixed on him.

"Any troubles we encounter, we will resolve," Arthur assured.

Only that didn't seem to settle the matter.

America released a breath that disturbed his golden fringe, "Yes, but...it occurs to me that your-your office is often locked. This could be...vexatious should I-I require something within..."

 _And it occurs to me,_ England thought, _that when you're nervous your language becomes infinitely more formal and I don't understand why something as simple as sharing a space-_

Ohhh...the boy was asking for something a bit more symbolic...a bit more...powerful on multiple levels.

It was a bold (though semi-veiled) request. In many ways it could be viewed as presumptuous and yet...rather than feeling affronted Arthur was deeply pleased.

It was the first time since they'd begun their long road of reconciliation that the child was actively asking for more trust. Prior to the hex breaking, (and after reading a slew of psychology websites) England had observed that America had largely rebuffed most of his attempts to establish more emotional intimacy and interdependency (not just between them but between the boy and his uncles and other relatives).

This was good. Alfred was rediscovering his own, real sense of agency (one unhampered by the reward-punishment dynamic of his hex). Alfred wanted a deeper relationship and _**he**_ was initiating it.

More access in Arthur's home meant more responsibility. It was an acknowledgment that their bond was healing and moving toward the next step. Where they wouldn't be "guests" and "hosts" anymore in each other's dwellings but inhabitants. No longer would they simply "stay" at one another's abodes, they'd "live" there instead...the way Arthur suspected Alfred and Texas lived at each other's houses.

Arthur smiled, "I agree. We'll need to see to it that you receive a duplicate key for the office. I'm glad you brought this up. I've been meaning to give you something."

His knees popped as he got up, but the pain didn't stop the bounce in his step. He walked away for a moment and extracted a key from his suitcase in the far corner. With the drama of Mathieu, Arthur had forgotten all about it.

Arthur returned and deposited the key in Alfred's hand, "To my London flat."

It made his heart flutter to watch the child smile as he pulled out his ring of house keys.

As little fingers added the new addition on...

Arthur spied one heavily used key with chipped Texan flag colors. He saw one that was dark blue, one had a hibiscus pattern, and one was striped blue, white, and green.

Perhaps Arthur's key wasn't as flashy as those (he'd been far too nervous to even dare consider putting his flag colors on it), but...his plain silver key seemed like it was in good company with the equally simple bronze key at the end. A bronze key that was the twin of the one Alfred had gifted him with last year...

Keys of home...

It felt so good to know his house was included once more.

* * *

Read & Review Please : D


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia.

 **Warning:** Some profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). First sewing machine. Flashbacks galore! Joke reference to Helen of Troy. Weird traditions of protecting newborn babies from fae. Drama!

 **Special Warning:** Mention of War Crimes committed by the Japanese Imperial Army during WWII. Just a few of the many...

 **AN:** Hey, thanks for all the reviews and well-wishes! Right now, I'm in that lull (two papers due next week) and then finals/project deadlines will come crashing down the following. So I'm pretty much in the eye of the storm, but managed to get this chapter written out. XD Hope you enjoy! : D

 **Chapter 6: The Book**

* * *

Alfred tossed and turned against the memory as it spoiled his dreams.

 _Osha's high heels were against the wall—casting shadows. They made his fraying tennis shoes, which were slumping beside them, look super shabby._

 _Her legs were tucked under her, but if he leaned back he spied her freshly painted toe nails. They were a bright teal and challenged his view of her being serious and conservative._

 _She should've looked demure sitting like that, but there was something too strong in the set of her shoulders. The confidence with which she gestured her hands made him nervous._

 _Her bracelets rattled. "Please open the folder."_

 _Inside the manila folder was a selection of wallet-sized photos._

 _All people he knew._

" _Please place your photo here." She pointed to a spot where the carpet was fraying._

 _He obeyed._

 _Her lips curved in a smile, "Now sort the remaining photos in rings in accordance to the level of connection you feel."_

" _Whoa-what? C-connection?"_

" _To whom you would be most strongly inclined to confide in?"_

" _..."_

 _She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Think of it like a tree ring. Only rather than recording age, you are acknowledging distance. Those whom you feel closest to, please set near your photo. You will likely find family and friends inside inner rings and acquaintances further out."_

 _America eyed all the different photos. He rotated an ankle and tried to stall._

" _I..I have to do this for all of them?" He complained._

 _She nodded solemnly, her deep, dark eyes reminded him of fetching water from wells at night._

 _He set Texas' photo right near his. Hawaii, Alaska, and Molossia were much further out. He couldn't envision them actively trying to sabotage him, so they got placed down. Still...no one knew him like Tex did and vice versa. When you'd interacted with someone at their worst and still couldn't be put off them...that was a bond that would last through armageddon._

 _Still, he felt kinda guilty looking through the photos._

 _Even after much internal debate, he couldn't bring himself to set down Japan...he kept remembering WWII—the murders of American pilots at Midway, the destruction of hospital ships, the sinking of merchant ships, and then there was the cannibalism...when the Imperial Army wasn't even starving..._

 _America had his country to think of. And the rest...the rest...he could've dumped the rest in a pile in the corner._

 _He flipped through them again. China, Russia, Italy, Germany, France, Canada, various staff members of his current D.C. regime._

 _He stared dispassionately at the headshots of the U.K. personifications and let them fall from his fingers._

 _It was too dangerous to speculate on them. History had ran its course._

Alfred sat up and blinked hard. He took several deep breaths and was kinda surprised and dismayed that he hadn't been shaken awake by Arthur.

Alfred frowned.

Geez, he was getting so spoiled. Still, it didn't stop him from looking around for his father. The table had crumb-filled plates and stale drinks. A tower of G-rated movies were next to the T.V.

Rhys had fallen asleep on the couch, while Alfred and Arthur were on an air mattress. His old man's back was turned toward Alfred.

They were camped out in the living room, for no other reason than that it was still kinda cold and they just...felt like it.

It was nice.

Tex and him did stuff like this all the time. Tex knew how to make a blanket fortress teepee. When he got back...when he got back...Alfred would have him make one...

His eyelids grew heavy as he fantasized his brother's return and he was about to settle back down when—

"No. Damnation..."

Oh...so the old man was preoccupied with his _**own**_ bad dream.

He should...do something.

Maybe it was because Alfred was tired and his mind was vacant...that when he curled close to Arthur in a half-assed attempt to comfort him before he fell back asleep...that he tumbled straight into Arthur's dream.

 _It was super weird and kinda alarming; the awkward pressing feeling that he was somewhere he shouldn't be. Like when you walked down a street at night that was too quiet. No cars puttering, no crickets chirping, no breaking glass…_

 _It usually meant you were about to be jumped._

 _Except there didn't seem to be anything shady going on and there was plenty of noise._

 _The sun was out, insects were buzzing, robins were nesting, and he wasn't sure what had Arthur in such a fit._

 _Maybe it was too hot for a Limey but not for a Yankee!_

 _The absurdity of Arthur having a nightmare over temperature had Alfred laughing away his fears. He spun around in lazy circles before lying down on the soft, lumpy, wild grass._

 _Considering he was experiencing depressingly gloomy weather in real life—it was like a vacation!_

 _He soaked in the dream rays and reveled in the revitalizing warmth of sun on his skin._

" _So zen, it has gotten you too," Francis remarked wearily._

" _Yes," Arthur replied hoarsely. "I have not heard from Alba in weeks. Latest letter from Gwalia...was written in his left hand...the other had to be...and Eire...he might as well be smoke. I have had no word of him at all."_

 _Alfred perked up at the familiar voices and tromped over._

 _France coughed and then mentioned, "My king thinks we have three planets aligned and they have created a Great Pest—"_

 _Arthur sighed, "The fear breeds faster than the disease...they're all saying it's the End of Days. They look to me for comfort and I have none to give. I know not how-"_

 _Alfred frowned and his nose wrinkled. So serious. Stealthily, he moved closer. He maneuvered himself behind the tree Arthur was resting against and scaled it._

 _He glimpsed through the foliage silk ruffles and other tell-tale signs that the European nations were dressed up in funky old clothes. Still, they were speaking normal English...or...he was...understanding them in modern English. Which was good, cuz sometimes when they (or Uncle Al or Uncle Reilley) got slobbering drunk they spoke in tongues Alfred couldn't even pretend to understand._

 _It was after he'd perched himself on a low branch just over Arthur's head that he got a good view of the men._

 _Alfred gasped. Arthur's fingers were blackened by rot._

 _Parts of France's face were similarly discolored._

 _Both nations had swellings and bubas._

 _Alfred stared in horrified fascination at their diseased flesh._

 _Arthur noticed he was there then and his rashed face gave way to alarm, "No. Do not breathe our air! Get thee back! For God's sake, we're contagious!"_

 _They were oogly alright, but they weren't contagious. Not for him._

 _Alfred frowned, "You're having a bad dream." He dangled a leg over the branch and carefully dropped down._

 _Arthur became hysterical. But Arthur's dream form was too weak to move far. His illness was in too advanced a stage._

" _You can't do anything to me," Alfred repeated._

 _Green eyes filled with fear and anger and helplessness._

 _Blood trickled at the corner of Arthur's mouth as he spat, "You fool! Why can't you simply listen to me? Take heed-"_

" _You can't," Alfred repeated—trying to make himself understood. "Hurt me."_

" _Alfred-"_

 _He finally just marched over and grasped the man's face, "Yup, this is the face that sunk a thousand ships. That armada didn't stand a chance."_

" _Alfred...why must you provoke Fate? Now, you'll suffer too…"_

 _Alfred rolled his eyes. Dad was being super melodramatic._

 _Alfred delivered his supreme flat look. The one that usually got Texas to shut up and back down. "Tch...Dad...even if you really_ _ **did**_ _have the plague. You couldn't hurt me. I'm immune."_

 _And he pushed one of his own memories forward:_

 _Sitting in smoke filled tents as medicine men sang in raw,_

 _overworked voices as more suffering bodies were laid down on woven mats._

 _Plague and pox took down the tribespeople in droves_

 _and it wasn't just the young, the old, or the weak…_

 _even the strongest of the braves sickened and died._

 _Survival of the afflicted came at random...and with scarring._

 _Only Dyami was wholly unaffected. Strange Dyami_

 _whom the pale faces allowed in their midsts without question._

 _It was taken as a dark omen and Dyami was driven out._

 _They created rules not to house him over a certain amount of days._

 _Shared stories of how evil tailed him and that if he stayed too long,_

 _the cloud of it would settle over a village._

 _Much to Alfred's shame, he realized they weren't wrong._

 _He_ _ **had**_ _been in close contact with European settlers_

 _(and their many diseases) and he'd been unconsciously spreading them._

 _He'd been a vessel of pestilence._

The dream broke and Alfred opened his eyes. He blearily looked up to see Arthur studying him lethargically. His messy blond hair was even more chaotic than usual.

"You're immune?" Arthur murmured.

"Yeah."

Thick eyebrows scrunched up, "It took me several deaths to gain immunity. For my body to...change enough...and there were different strains..."

Alfred patted the Briton's hand gently (the way Arthur often did when others were in need of comfort)."I'm sorry, it looked really painful."

"Hmm? Oh...yes, but...you're immune?" Arthur blinked owlishly.

"Yes."

"You're _**immune**_?" Arthur questioned him seriously.

Dude, how many times were they going to go over that?

It caught Alfred off-guard when Arthur abruptly touched his face.

"D-dad?"

Arthur gently turned Alfred's head this way and that in interest.

"Uh?"

He sounded kind of choked up when he said: "I didn't get to lavish gifts on you when you were born. I didn't even get to guard your cradle with my trousers."

The heck was he going on about?!

Arthur released him and pulled the blanket up—tucking Alfred in. "But I gifted you with immunity. That part I passed on. You'll never know that illness."

Alfred blinked, "Nope."

Arthur lips trembled as they pulled into a smile, "You'll never know it."

"Never," Alfred assured.

" _ **Never**_ ," Arthur repeated. As the elder blond drifted back to sleep, he murmured, "A good gift."

* * *

Rhys shut the burner off, grabbed a mitt, and took the kettle off as it whistled.

Arthur was in another room informing Parliament about their delay. He walked in as Rhys was pouring tea into the teapot.

"I keep warning them that there's an undercurrent of true resentment they need to address and they're not…" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh well. At least Alfred is in a good place. He's much more enthusiastic about visiting with me this time," Arthur set his phone down with an adapter so it could charge.

Rhys raised an eyebrow, "Oh?"

Arthur pushed Rhys's hands away and took up the teapot. He filled two cups. "Hmm. Last time I had to twist his arm. His magic critically low, his life hanging in the balance, and he wasn't sure he wanted to spend Yule with us. Though...considering his treatment by the UnSeelies I'm...I'm surprised he's so...optimistic this go around."

"Perhaps the hex breaking is responsible for his change in demeanor?"

Arthur's features lit up. "Yes, I think so too. He's remembering me...he's remembering...better times for us. Sometimes I look over and...it's so clear...he knows me. Really knows me and my boy is back."

Rhys nodded and tried to appear supportive, because Arthur was so delighted to have 'that boy' back.

Rhys's more sentimental side agreed. It felt good to be remembered—to have the nephew he'd doted on in the 1600s no longer cringe when he drew near.

Only…

Only 'that boy' was far more volatile than the one they'd dealt with for the past few centuries. True, he loved unrestrainedly...and Arthur could feel the difference in their bond but…

That boy was the one who'd declared two wars…fought tooth and nail against those he cherished.

He was a beloved boy, an impulsive boy, an easily frustrated, ruthless one...and Arthur was in no shape to deal with him should he... _turn_ …on account of a fit of temper.

Arthur was mercurial enough on his own without being provoked and considering how agitated he was right now…

It opened foreboding possibilities.

Rhys took a sip from his cup before offering, "I can watch him should you need time to sort yourself out-"

"Why do you keep going on about that?!" The blond growled.

"You feel...wrong." His aura was...Rhys shuddered at the darkness stifling it.

"What? What is it?" Arthur snapped.

Like a thundercloud with lightning racing through it...

Rhys placed the kettle on the stove to cool. "You felt like this...then…"

"Good God, man. You're being too damned cryptic."

Rhys exhaled as he sat across from his brother.

"...?"

"When you burnt his capitol," Rhys finally supplied.

"..." Arthur pushed his cup of tea back at his brother.

Rhys sighed.

"How dare you…how _dare_ you insinuate I…" He broke off as they both were alerted to an acute peak of distress.

After a mad dash through the house, they found Alfred staring at the bookcase in his room with a slack expression.

They both reached for him and—

 _Alfred selected another book from the rough hewn wood of Father's bookcase. He was determined to safely transfer Father's books to the new house. He wrinkled his nose at the small walls of the cabin. Soon he'd sell this dismal place and say farewell to its host of bad memories._

 _Samuel, his fellow lieutenant and friend, was helping him fill a trunk. The young man was reaching for an archaic green one bound by leather. It had two leather belt buckles keeping it closed._

" _I would not touch that one, were I you, Samuel," Alfred murmured._

" _Oh? And why is that?" The man asked as he set a hand on it._

" _Sharp pages."_

 _He'd barely finished explaining when his friend, hissed at a deep papercut._

" _Warned you," Alfred replied in a singsong voice._

 _Samuel sucked at the injury and hissed as he looked at the damage._

 _It was one of Father's spellbooks and it did that to dissuade nonmagic users from taking interest in it. Quite practical._

 _Unfortunately, as Alfred's magic waned, it sometimes injured him too. Perhaps when Father got over his wounded vanity, they could see about addressing that. There_ _ **had**_ _to be a cure._

 _He was loathe to reveal the aging spell he'd managed to cast in the 1770s, but...if it was aggravating his condition...then he'd have to come clean._

 _And then he'd have to hear a long, boring lecture about the dangers of shapeshifting. Uncle Rhys would probably join him._

 _No matter. After Father saw the Hall, Alfred would be sure to earn back his regard._

 _Then Mathieu could eat a good, hearty slice of humble pie._

 _Treating Alfred like he was a leper. No. Like he was the "fallen one" of their household. Humph. He'd only done what was necessary for his people's sake and to show he was a nation worthy of respect too._

 _Father was an Empire! He would understand. In the grand picture (whether America liked it or not and he didn't because it trivialized the noble sacrifices his people made) America's whole Revolution was tantamount to treading on England's foot. Irksome, perhaps, but nothing the man couldn't get over._

" _So you're packing?" Sam muttered as he wrapped a handkerchief around his thumb._

" _Aye, I'm taking them to the house."_

" _Ah yes, your mysterious chateau," the older teenager grinned._

" _Hardly. There just isn't a road paved to it, yet. I'm still hopeful I may cut cost and pave it myself."_

" _So pennypinching."_

" _I prefer the term: spendthrift."_

 _Samuel pushed sandy fringe out of his eyes. "Rumor has it, that it's quite a palace."_

" _A gross exaggeration."_

" _How could it not be? You spend all your off hours laboring over it. I wish to see it."_

" _You would be disappointed. Perhaps some other time when it's nearer to completion."_

 _Alfred took care to set a large Bible over the spellbook and obscure it from view._

"I wondered where that book had gotten to," Arthur stated flatly as the vision ended. "So I left it behind-"

"I have to go to the house," Alfred mumbled dreamily. "I have to-"

"Nonono," Arthur argued. "Nonono pet, that can wait."

"Have to go to the house," Alfred replied inflexibly.

Arthur frowned at Rhys, "This happened when the Roanoke memories hit." He turned to Alfred and grasped him by the shoulders. "Why must you go?"

"Reminds me…" Alfred trailed off.

"Reminds you of what?" Arthur asked.

"The Book."

Arthur's eyebrows drew together. "There's no need to hurry, we can recover the book later. In Spring, we'll give the Hall a good cleaning. We can look for it then."

Alfred's cheeks puffed stubbornly. "The Book."

"Alf-"

"The _**Book**_."

Rhys looked at the window; at the steely gray sky and the snow swirling outside, "Does your son understand that this is the worst possible moment for him to want to do this?"

Arthur heaved a sigh, "This is Alfred. We can either supervise or be left behind."

* * *

Arthur grit his teeth as an icy breeze assaulted him. He tied his scarf tighter and cast a slightly irritated glance at his offspring as they crunched through snow.

If it wasn't for his tight grip on the boy's hand, America would've disappeared into the woods. And England would've had a heart attack. Scotland would've mocked him. Albion had survived countless winters as a child. Harsher than this. Supplied with less. And yet the idea of his child out wandering in the snow...alone…unsheltered...was simply repugnant.

"Alfred, stop pulling me along," he growled. "You're hurting my arm."

It had been a struggle getting him properly dressed for the journey. He'd have wandered out without a coat, if Arthur hadn't been insistent in bundling him up.

He straightened Alfred's hat over his blue earmuffs.

As the trees thinned and they stepped out into the clearing of Kirkland Hall, Arthur's jaw dropped.

Rhys looked over in alarm. "Arthur? What is it? What are you seeing?"

Rhys took hold of Alfred's other hand and shared in Alfred's enchanted vision, Kirkland Hall was restored to its former glory.

As they approached, Arthur saw how every roof tile and window shutter was accounted for.

A flourished, gleaming 'K' adorned the door knocker. The polished iron caught the light and ignited warmth through Arthur's chest.

When they pushed inside, their feet clomped over waxed wooden floors.

He even got the faintest scent of fresh paint and new furniture...like an echo...like a ghost trailing a near-forgotten perfume…

Rolls of carpeting stood waiting like sentries at the far side of the room.

Half of the windows had curtains.

Arthur spied a very old styled sewing machine; a design he recognized as Stone and Henderson's. It caught the wintry light well and was obviously well cared for...at least in that time. Another set of brocade curtains was currently in the works.

A grand chandelier was lying in a newly opened wooden crate. It's crystal ornaments were wrapped in leather and balanced at the edge.

The staircase had all its balusters and was in the process of being stained. And there were two flags keeping each other company at the bottom; One early American design with fifteen stars, the other...a now very familiar Union Jack. Then it would've been new—little more than a decade old. Adopted in 1801 with the union of Great Britain and Ireland.

Considering America and England's strained relations, it spoke volumes that America had managed to acquire one.

It would be taken up to Arthur's would-be bedroom and settled in a corner where it could catch light from the windows.

Because he'd always told the boy how proud it made him...seeing the Sun illuminate the colors of his flag.

And there it stayed in the upstairs Master Bedroom undisturbed...until the Sun faded it. And even then...it wasn't cast out.

Voice thick with emotion, he forced out, "It's beautiful. Stunning. I love it. I love _**you**_."

But the child was too distracted. "The Book...gotta...the Book."

The boy led them to the kitchen.

Arthur and Rhys both made sounds of alarm as they registered two men there. Only…

"Another memory," Rhys remarked.

The men...were teenagers...and Alfred was one of them.

 _An early spring sunset filtered weak pink light through the windows._

 _Alfred stood stock still. His blue eyes were wide, his face was pale, and a dark cape was set haphazardly on his shoulders._

 _In his hand, he held a small pot of evergreen holly. The sproutling was fresh and new._

 _Stubs of candles and incense added to the mystical atmosphere._

 _Feathers and beads and ornaments of both English and Iroquoian design dangled over the hearth's mantle and a great cauldron bubbled and foamed._

" _You!" Samuel hissed. "All that talk! And you're one too! You speak of them as Devils. When you're no different. Worse. You're one in plain sight. In. Plain. Sight! Deceiving us all."_

" _I've no choice!" Alfred snapped. "All I do, I do for you! For your kind! And this is holly, you idgit! It protects-"_

"Against evil and witchcraft," Arthur and Rhys answered instinctively. Their mother's lessons on which trees and shrubs were wholesome and helpful was engraved in their memories.

 _Samuel's gray eyes narrowed into slits. "You must be mad to think we'd suffer a witch in our midst!"_

" _I heard shouting," a third voice, deeper and older, remarked as he entered. The man's uniform suggested he was a colonel._

 _Samuel strode over to the colonel. "Lieutenant Kirkland is a witch. And should be hanged with all due haste."_

 _The bearded colonel appraised the younger teenager, "That true, boy?"_

 _Alfred grabbed an iron poker as a makeshift weapon. He took a step back and clutched his potted plant protectively._

 _The older man laughed. "Well, if that ain't confirmation."_

 _Samuel clasped his hands behind his back and stared down his nose at his former friend._

" _Weatherby."_

" _Sir?"_

" _Go tend my horse."_

" _Sir?! I'm not certain it's safe to leave you with-"_

" _Now." He dismissed the lieutenant._

 _The young man left, though not without giving several furtive glances behind him._

" _So," the man began—tapping a white beaded string of leather and watching it swing to and fro. "Our nation's a witch. Guess those Bostonians were onto something."_

 _America was very pale. His lips were pursed into a thin, grim line._

England felt his own heart pound with empathy and fear. He knew how awful it was to be caught. What a witch could be subjected to…how a nation could be treated to force such "evil" out...

" _About damned time you were useful."_

The vision faded and the dreary kitchen, in its current state of delipidation, came into view.

Alfred pulled his hands free and made for the hearth.

His foot kicked the fallen kettle and he ducked under the iron cranes.

"Sweet? What are doing?"

The child ignored him and pulled his little gloves off.

"Ack!" Arthur rescued them from the floor. "Alfie, get out from there. I don't like it." Even without any hint of flame, it reminded him of too many other tragedies. And he half-feared the aged chimney could come down on his son. "Alfred?"

The boy dug his fingers into gaps in the mortar of the brickwork.

The Kirkland Brothers both stared as their youngest family member pulled a loose brick out and let it drop.

More bricks followed.

Arthur got as near as he could and began actively tugging on the back of the boy's jacket. He didn't want to drag him out as it would knock him into the hanging rack hooks, but, "Ack, Sweetheart, watch your feet. O be careful! Be _careful_."

The Briton stared at the now sizable hole at the back of the chimney. Alfred gave his father an even greater scare when he boldly reached in.

"Alfred, there could be vermin!"

Alfred pulled back, frowned, removed more bricks and then reached both arms in.

He pulled out an old cobweb encrusted basket. The wicker was peeling apart in places.

Arthur and Rhys steadied the child by the elbows as he tromped back out.

Rhys gently relieved the boy of his burden.

Mission accomplished, Alfred returned to his senses...though terribly tired and fairly surly.

He had a laundry list of complaints: "I'm cold. I'm tired. My legs hurt. My feet are pinching. My fingers sting."

At least it was easy getting his gloves back on him.

Arthur unzipped several layers, picked the child up, coaxed the little arms to hold him around the neck, and zipped his outermost layer back up. He'd done that quite a bit when Alfred was small...and fussy.

It still had the desired effect. Alfred relaxed and set his head down on Arthur's shoulder.

"Memories like those take a lot out of you, don't they, Sweet?" He crooned.

There was a small nod and Arthur murmured sweet nonsense until the little body grew languid. Soft, even, warm puffs of breath breezed across his neck and Arthur rocked the child soothingly.

Rhys looked a little uncomfortable at their affectionate display.

"Is there a book in there?" Arthur asked.

"Y-yes. Several."

"Good. Let's go now, before the truck gets buried and we're stranded out here."

Once he had Kirkland hall outfitted with electricity and gas, winter could be bearable. Until then...it just wasn't conceivable. They needed to return before what little sunlight there was, faded and the temperature turned wickedly frigid.

It was hard to say who was more embarrassed when Arthur very, very carefully climbed over America's _No Trespassing_ fence: Rhys, who had to offer a steadying hand as Arthur dismounted, or Arthur...who had to accept it.

His ankle was still delicate since its break several months earlier and he didn't dare risk Alfred's safety on account of his pride.

When both of his feet were safely on the ground, green eyes met hazel ones and there was a silent mutual vow that no one anywhere would ever learn of this moment. Ever.

Arthur frowned at a crow as it rasped at them from a snow laden branch. He longed to be back at the Virginian Brick Colonial under a nice warm quilt. He'd plug the electric heater in and let it warm the space. Maybe microwave some hot cocoa. (He usually preferred the stove top for such tasks, but he knew that if he was tired now...he'd be exhausted when they finally made it home and would lack the patience to wait several minutes when he could have something done in a handful of seconds.)

With a shivering child held tightly to his breast, it was no wonder why Arthur succumbed to modern conveniences so easily. Some of his people had been superstitiously paranoid when it came to electricity and heating. Not him. Not if it made life simpler.

Maybe it was the hopelessness of ages past—of rocking and shushing his wards when there was no comfort to be had in brutally cold winters and blisteringly hot summers that made him leap at chances to soften those realities.

Alfred whined unhappily at another sharp blast of winter air.

He adjusted the child's earmuffs once more and tugged the red winter hat more snugly over the boy's head.

Thankfully, the truck wasn't buried in snow and behind the seats there was an ice scraper, a squeegee, and a bottle of a de-icing solution. Rhys started the engine and checked the tailpipe for ice. They had to let the vehicle warm up before de-icing its windshield.

He had to hand it to his boy, he prepared for quite a lot. Which was probably why his pantry situation had distressed him so much. He liked having some sense of control when things spiraled out of certainty.

Arthur was pleased that Alfred had settled into his booster seat without a fuss though he would've liked to discuss his not-so-faithful friend Samuel.

Willing to see Alfred hanged over the most trivial applications of witchcraft. For God's sake, Alfred hadn't even been doing anything showy! He didn't even have any animal bones or fat or blood and the contents of that cauldron looked suspiciously like laundry.

He frowned as he thought of the other man's words: ' _Useful_.' It seemed sinister.

Arthur buckled himself in while his brother tended the truck.

He gently removed Alfred's earmuffs and hat, so the child could rest back more fully. Arthur combed his fingers through the wheat colored hair as Alfred's breaths deepened.

What he would've given to have been there. He'd have shown them what malicious sorcery was like.

He dropped a kiss to the child's forehead and, assured the boy was enjoying a restful sleep, turned his attentions to Alfred's discovery.

Arthur took the basket off the driver's seat and set it in his lap. There was a curious assortment within. He found three spellbooks that he'd long ago written off as casualties of the ages. He wondered idly how Alfred had fared with them. They weren't aimed at beginners and he hoped the boy hadn't spent too many frustrating hours trying to translate Old English.

He set the books aside and inspected the rest. There was one old toy soldier he'd carved for Alfred years ago. It still had most of its red paint but...he frowned at the clump of wax around it. There was also a bent candle holder, an old tattered spool of disintegrating yarn, and a small bundle of paper tied with a cord.

The first leaf of parchment was a note, or rather a draft of a note, with abrupt starts and stops. What piqued Arthur's interest was that it was addressed to him.

 _Father. Arthur. Father. England._

"Father," he murmured to the sleeping child beside him. "For your future reference, you can always head your letters with ' _Dear Father.'_ Or ' _Dearest Daddy_ ' if you're looking to be spoiled."

The boy's hand twitched and Arthur clasped it gently. Green eyes scanned the rest of the almost-letter.

 _I realize our many difficulties as of late make overtures challenging, but if you could have pity on me-_

Arthur's heart twinged painfully for had he not shared similar words not so long ago?

 _I would have us meet by our tree._

A tree long gone...now...

 _My government's demands are frightful and I have no means with which to gauge them. I know not what-_

The Briton frowned. This was a very disorganized proto-letter and yet a very clear plea for help. They were the words of a fledgling nation floundering as he wasn't certain that what he was being asked to do was right and just. He needed an elder nation's guidance on a personal level.

It made his father's heart twist. Because America's instincts had been dead on and an unhealthy relationship between him and his government was unfolding then. And here England was, several centuries too late to intervene. Because the final draft of this letter never made it to his hands. And he had plenty of people to blame for that.

Green eyes scanned it once more and his soul ached as he read over fragment sentences—all seeking advice without naming the nature of the problem: exploitation and how to resist it. The handwriting grew messier near the end.

At the bottom was a bleak, chilling.

 _Forgive me._

* * *

Read & Review Please : DDD


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or Hammer Films or Star Wars. Or Martha Stewart, Clint Eastwood, Betty Crocker, or Jonah Hex. Or Google Translate. Or Ziplock. Or Pizza Hut. Or Spongebob Squarepants. Or Reese Cups.

 **Warning:** Some profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). During the 1820s the furthest planet of the Solar System would be Saturn. Technology would have to develop a lot before astronomers were able to detect additional bodies. Puritans were just the fun-killers of their era. More drama and feels...probably. Some brattiness.

 **AN:** Thank you for you reviews and interest! As for the pronunciation of Rhys. There are two correct versions [r̥ɨːs] in Northern Wales (which kinda has a marbles-in-the-mouth quality) and the Southern Wales (and North American) pronunciation [ri:s]. If you head over to (cough yes) Wikipedia they have a good sound clip for the two versions. I imagine that his brothers pronounce it both ways depending on their moods and their own accents (I interpret them to be more sensitive to a wealth of more phonological sounds given their long linguistic histories), but America's rather late to the language game (having come into existence after the Great Vowel Shift and a simplification of language sounds. I.e. the loss of the ash, the thorn, and a myriad of other fun sounds. Look up "kniçt" and you'll know what I mean). America would pronounce it exclusively in the North American version "Reese" like Reese Cups. If we've any British readers who've talked to Americans, they'll probably pick up on how American English has simplified even more with regards to 'a.' Our version of English (for the majority) doesn't differentiate between "caught" and "cot." Most of us have lost the "aw" vs. "ah" inflectional difference. So, we tend to think of them as homophones. And I'll tell ya what! All the pronunciation differences for "e," "a," and "o," in Old English is tough on a Yankee. But we're good at Early Modern English...so we can read aloud Shakespeare and the King James Bible with relative ease. (In my Linguistic class, you have to read aloud and be graded on the inflection.)

: D And now onwards! Enjoy!

 **Chapter 7: I'm The Manly Man...And You're The Other One**

* * *

Alfred watched the Hammer Film with rapt attention. The room was awash in the glow of the television set. He'd turned off all the lamps to increase the dramatic effect.

The satellite signal had miraculously cleared at a little past nine and he was making the most of it. Rhys had gone off to a guest room to "recharge" almost immediately following dinner. Alfred ate another handful of hours old, lukewarm popcorn.

The wind outside was howling again and the screen depicted an eerie vampire-owned estate. The combined creepiness had him burrowing into Arthur's side. Arthur snorted and awoke.

Green eyes blinked just as the blood-sucking fiend bared his fangs. "Bloody hell, Alfred." He reached over Alfred to grab the remote.

"H-hey!"

Arthur turned it to the Disney channel. "There."

America wrestled it back and pressed Return—transporting the channel back to ghoulishness.

Arthur's brows furrowed. "You're going to have nightmares because of this rot."

"Nuh-uh."

"Oh really?"

Alfred's cheeks puffed.

Arthur stretched his arms over his head. "Well then, I'm off to bed. Pleasant dreams." He bid ominously.

Alfred chased after him when he left the couch. "W-wait! You can't go to bed now. It's not even in the AMs yet."

"I'm exhausted, dear boy. _**I**_ didn't get to sleep the whole way home."

There was a piercing female scream and Alfred looked over to the screen—debating over whether he should try and negotiate. Would Arthur stay if he changed the channel? Except that sounded like a sissy-backing-down-thing to do.

He stayed looking at the screen, crossed his arms, and grit through his teeth. "Fine. Good. Night."

A warm hand rested on his head. "Goodnight, Son." The hand moved down to cup his face. "My door will stay open."

Maybe it was because it was said so gently…

 _He learnt at a young age that the abrupt sounds of piercing whistle signals and the fading footfalls of clomping boots were sounds of goodbye..._

Maybe because it was all sincerity and no teasing…

 _It should've been anticlimactic that a closed door could mean the end of all they'd had, but the clerk was insistent that the Admiral wouldn't have visitors and though he said nothing of the American's outdated suit—Alfred felt the sneer._

He dropped the remote to catch the hand. "Can't you please stay? Please? _Pleeeease_?"

He hardly even watched the stupid movie after that.

"I'm not going anywhere," Arthur assured him from time to time while he rubbed Alfred's back. Then he scolded lightly, "Goodness, if you were feeling so lonely, why didn't you wake me earlier?"

"I don't even know why I'm so...this…" He sniffled and knew he couldn't blame it on allergies. He was given a comforting squeeze.

"You had some very troubling memories. You took Rhys and I along."

"..."

"It's...it's very hard…" Arthur began "To...to have a friend...turn on you…let alone a superior officer exploit you."

Alfred looked up and saw that the bridge of Arthur's nose had crinkled. He shrugged a shoulder, "I guess…I...it just hasn't hit yet. Or rather, half of it's hit me."

"What do you mean?" Arthur asked sharply.

"It's like...when I watched those crystal ball vids you guys made. Roanoke might've been me...but he was so far away it didn't seem like a big deal. I got the information first. And then I _got it_. And I broke down at Pizza Hut like a wuss. Except this time it's kinda reversed. I'm getting the upset part, but I can't remember all of Samuel. What happens when I do? Will I freak out worse?"

"We'll deal with that then." Arthur stretched out more fully on his side and pulled a second blanket over them. "...you weren't a wuss…"

Alfred managed a weak smile. It was little things like that which signaled that Dad was still fully in Overprotective Mode.

He'd been super affectionate and considerate since their _outing_ to the Hall. Plus, he'd been pretty gushy over that scrap of parchment and that Alfred needn't be so formal. If he ever had troubles and needed help, go to the source.

What was it he'd said?

 _Arthur tapped the letter with the back of his fingers,"You silly goose, I don't want you to bother with drafting a letter when a conversation will be quickest in getting you aid!"_

Which was something...cuz Dad was pretty damn partial to letter-writing...

"I...I know that letter upset you. I'm sorry," He murmured.

Arthur stiffened, "Oh nonono, you don't need to be sorry, pet."

"But...I…"

"I just feel so terrible I didn't _**receive**_ your letter. When I think of what you were going through-"

"But you don't."

Green eyes stared down at him.

"How could you know what I was going through? I mean, _**I**_ don't even know one hundred percent. I mean...I've got some ideas but...anyways. Wait. We're talking about you... you...you don't have to. I mean, I don't exactly remember the context."

Arthur's eyebrows rose to his hairline.

"No wait. Hear me out...it's just...we don't know for sure what it was I was asking. Or...apologizing for...I...I just I mean...I don't want you to give me credit where it isn't due. Cuz if it comes out I'm talking about something stupid like napkin rings, I don't want you to feel used."

If Arthur's dopey smile and the light shaking of his head was anything to go by; the Brit pretty much let that go in one ear and out the other. He pulled off Alfred's eyepatch and smiled.

"I see some color there."

"Really?" He asked. Aware there was too much hope in his voice. "What shade?"

"Blue."

"Yeah, but-"

"Ice blue."

Alfred sighed, "So it's still wrong."

"Can you see through it?"

"Hm? Oh…" He looked around. "Eh…"

Arthur's hand gently cupped itself over Alfred's good eye.

"Oh...um…? Well...the T.V.'s a lightish blob and everything else is pretty dark."

Arthur's hand moved away and ruffled his hair, "That's fantastic. You're healing up so quick."

The man tossed the eyepatch onto the table, "You won't be needing that anymore."

"O' course I need that! Look at me! You said it yourself. They don't match!"

Arthur reached over and turned a light on the side table on.

Alfred blinked hard at the sudden light.

"Oh," Arthur breathed delightedly—his hand rested on the cheek of Alfred's injured eye. "That's wonderful. Your pupil's not only there but it reacted. The muscles have re-developed and healed. No, you need to stop wearing the patch and let the eye strengthen." He patted the cheek and then he laid back down on a pillow.

Alfred frowned, "I don't wanna be seen like this."

"Pfft. Neither Rhys nor I care about a mismatch in hue! You're being silly. You're a very handsome boy."

"I mean on the plane!"

"Wear sunglasses," Arthur compromised.

"Yeah...I guess…"

"You worry far too much about your appearance," Arthur tutted.

Alfred pouted; of course he cared about how he looked...

 _Sir Walter Scott's "The Monastery" was ripped from his grasp. And the thief tapped him hard on the head with it. "You squandered part of your funds for this? Didn't you?"_

 _Alfred looked away, "It's an older edition and it's used! It's not like I bought his latest work, though I imagine the subject will likely come up. England always buys books so new, the ink still smells. Which means I need a different approach; I want it to play like I've had this a while and will soon be in the market for the newest one. So I got this and read it up and it's really quite-"_

 _The man straightened Alfred's collar, "You're here to strengthen diplomatic ties-"_

" _I am!" He insisted. "I mean...I shall. I, yes, it is technically written by a Scotsman, but England's dominion-"_

 _The human made sure all of Alfred's buttons were fastened correctly,"You're here for business. For trade-"_

" _I should think-"_

" _No one invited you to think. This isn't some event of the Arts. With poets reading and everyone pretending to be philosophes. You're to shake hands and make friends and be delightfully charming. Clear your head of all your absurd schemes. You-"_

" _You have my word, I'll be friendly company and-" Alfred tried to snatch the book back and looked to his other diplomatic associate for support._

 _The man gave him a flat look and heaved a sigh as he stared back out at the ballroom as he applied last-minute wax to his mustache. He addressed the other man rather than Alfred. "I told you we should've arrived later with him. The less time spent, the less opportunity he has to make a fool of himself."_

 _Alfred reached for the book again._

 _The man moved the novel away. "Everyone here will be friendly. Those nations" He pointed to Europe's most powerful countries collected together at the center of the ballroom. "Are at the center of our world. They're the sun," The man hissed. "And you might as well be Saturn. I need you to be charming. I need you to hang off their every word. For God's sake don't you dare try to dominate the conversation with a bloody romance novel. You can read, thank the Lord, but don't think that's going to impress them!"_

 _Alfred glowered._

" _Don't do that." The diplomat reached over to smooth out Alfred's features. "God knows your face is one of the few advantages he gave you."_

Alfred realized too late that he'd broadcast that unhappy memory of an 1820's overseas trade mission.

"They're burning in hell," Arthur informed him confidently and looked wickedly satisfied at the thought.

* * *

Rhys watched Alfred laboriously squirt the last bits of a Hershey's syrup bottle into his milk and stir it in with a spoon. He made a mental note to purchase his nephew some Nesquik when they were back in the U.K.

All that morning, Alfred had been fretting over making arrangements to have someone watch over his Virginia Colonial since his U.K. relatives were badgering him about not letting the pipes freeze again. Only the child was whining about costs; because there was already someone watching Tex's estate and how much money were they going to shell out in hiring house sitters? And then there was Americat to think of. He was over at Tex's home because when Tex had returned after New Year's he'd taken Americat back to the States. And that led to a personal crisis as Alfred realized he hadn't spent any time with his kitty since December. Did that make him a bad cat owner?

Yes, it technically did. But Rhys caught Arthur's warning glare before he answered affirmatively.

It took a call to Texas and his reassurance that Americat was fine because fat animals only have one love and it's food and the promise that he'd bring Americat when he came over.

Alfred took a slurp of semi-chocolate milk. There hadn't been enough syrup to transform it completely. "Dude, I-I dunno. I mean, I can't just invite you to somebody else's house. It's bad form."

Rhys watched the conversation unfold like a badminton match.

" _There you go again sounding like Daddy McPrissypants."_

"Keep that attitude and you're certainly not invited," Arthur sniffed.

" _Dammit Al, tell me when I'm on Speaker!"_

"You should always assume it. I do."

" _Well ya know what? Ya know what? There! I put you on! Now all the fellas can hear ya!"_

And then Alfred started belting the theme song of _Spongebob Squarepants._

" _And you're off now,"_ Tex grumbled two lyrics in and it became clear the call and response nature of the song had garnered more enthusiasm than expected.

"Dude, I'm like a professional when it comes to rabble-rousing," America boasted. "You set yourself up for that."

" _Tch. Whatever. Buzz off!"_

Alfred gasped. "Excuuuse you?"

" _Huh? Nah, not you. Not you, Baby Brother. I'm tellin' Stuart off. He's poking fun at our Bromance. Tch. It wasn't weird until the second half of the 1800s. It wasn't."_ Tex growled at someone near him.

"Tex has always been touchy," Alfred complained to his father and uncle. "It's the Spanish influence. They're a handsy, gushy people. Mexico too. She's superstitious as hell. And thinks it's good luck to touch a blond's head. Sometimes she still ends our trades deals doing that. I smile so it's less awkward."

" _Hey! The egg thing_ _ **does**_ _work. Gets rid of mal de ojo."_

"Horrid waste of food."

" _I blame you England. That Victorian-ness you shipped over, messed him up. And he got even prissier. Like he wasn't girly enough before-"_

"I am NOT girly."

" _Al, it's fine. We all know I'm the manly man and you're...the other one."_

"I am NOT the girly one."

" _You're a dandy. Always have been. Frolicking in fields in stockings!"_

"Whoa! First off, fields would tear stockings up-"

" _You're the Martha Stewart to my Clint Eastwood, the Betty Crocker to my Jonah Hex-"_

"I'm like Luke Skywalker. I'm a farmer that kicks ass! And you're gonna go down like Custer if ya don't shut up. You would starve to death if there weren't people to serve you food. Why do you think I outfit all of these destroyers with bigass cafeterias? You couldn't survive with-"

" _I'm a Grill MASTER!"_

"God, I can't believe I have to be the one to say this: You can't live off of meat alone!"

" _Yes, I can!"_

Arthur finally took the phone himself, "Texas, inform me in a week's advance on when you're going to visit. So we can prepare."

" _I've been your guest before. I didn't break nuthin. You make it sound like I'm somethin' you have to batton down the hatches for."_

"You are," Rhys added definitively.

* * *

When the storm finally cleared and driving conditions improved, England insisted on making a trip to D.C.

He'd received an email that his private investigator was waiting to meet with him and had a quite a discovery to share. He'd hired Detective Jenkins in late December during the aftermath of America's...death. It was an attempt to get to the bottom of the postal conspiracy and a way to keep himself sane as he was besieged with grief.

Alfred thought the trip was an opportunity for him to inform Congress of his holiday plans and, unwilling to disappoint the lad, Arthur agreed to have him along but under the condition that they pitstop at the British Embassy first. How could he say no when Alfred humored him by wearing sunglasses instead of the patch? And when he feared that drawing it out any longer might be construed as deception? Alfred had a right to know.

The nerve-wracking part came when Rhys (whom Arthur deliberately left out of the loop and tried to coordinate their departure with his shower) slid into the passenger's seat. His wet hair trickled rivulets down his steam-reddened face and did nothing to soften his hard hazel glare.

"You're all wet," Alfred observed—kicking his feet playfully.

"Indeed."

Thankfully, Alfred's presence and his habit of singing along with the radio kept the peace... though there was palpable tension between the brothers.

The ceasefire ended when they reached their destination and Alfred raced toward the building—ignoring Arthur's warning to be wary of ice on the sidewalk.

Rhys grabbed him by the elbow, "What the devil are we doing here and why was I not informed?"

Reluctantly, the Briton divulged their reason for coming.

The Welshman's eyebrows shot up, "Are you certain you want to do this now? That you don't want it shipped to us instead?"

"And give them the opportunity to 'lose' it?" Arthur replied bitterly.

They arrived in the lobby to find a slightly flustered Mr. Jenkins having his hand shook vigorously by America.

"You found it! You _found_ it! Thank you!"

 _ **It**_ was a large wooden coach trunk...from the late 1700s. Alfred's fingers lovingly tapped the aged brackets.

"Shabby chic is in. I can spruce her right up." He smiled over his shoulder at Arthur, "I can't believe you found this for me! John-that is John Hancock, he bought her for me. For when I travelled. So I'd look sophisticated! I think if I re-stain her she'll-"

Jenkins meaty hand met Arthur's in a firm handshake. "It was moved into the Dead-Letter Office in 1825. Been there for ages. They seemed pretty glad to be rid of it, too. It was under strict orders that it had to be 'asked for.' It was odd. Also, gave me this." He handed Arthur a binder. It held very old papers put into modern plastic protective sheets.

Arthur opened it, aware that Rhys was reading over his shoulder.

The top one said:

 _Alfred F. Kirkland_

 _12th Regiment, Infantry—men from Virginia._

It listed his rank as a lieutenant and his death as a "Battle Casualty in 1812."

Arthur flipped through the pages. There was already confusion in the paperwork as Alfred was simultaneously in the Regular Army and in several state militias and thus over-enlisted.

The militia papers were a mess; some hailing from the 1770s, others from the 1800s. There were notes here and there from commanders (of varying eloquence) stating that there had to be errors because if Kirkland had indeed served during 76, he'd be old and gray.

There was even a rather embarrassing dismissal from the newborn US Navy.

"Gah! Don't look at that!" Alfred gasped as he realized what they had.

" ' _Persistent violent seasickness,_ '" Rhys read off.

Alfred's face turned bright red.

"You didn't even last a month," Rhys continued—sounding amused. "Your commanding officer said and I quote-"

Arthur gave his brother a sharp elbow.

Alfred looked away, "I was no good."

Arthur blinked. "That's alright."

Alfred's lips thinned.

"Why wouldn't that be alright?" Arthur demanded.

Alfred's arms crossed over his chest defensively.

"Wot? What? You think because Daddy's an Admiral you have to prove your seamanship too?"

There was something in the flinch that let him know how much was invested and lost in that "failure."

"You don't," Arthur stated bluntly, surprised this was even an issue. So the boy would never be a captain of the seas...so what? America was a captain of the skies.

The startled jaw drop prompted him to repeat that last bit out loud.

There was a stunned, shy sort of nod.

Arthur snapped the binder shut and went over to investigate the trunk.

There was an old chain wrapped around it with a large rusty padlock.

Previous crisis forgotten, Alfred waltzed up. He took the chain between his small hands and with a grunt—snapped it apart.

Detective Jenkins visibly shuddered as he muttered, "Nations…"

England's eyes narrowed at the human's words and the man hastily remembered himself. He wondered what it was that made humans quick to forget that he and his brothers were inhuman themselves...yet everyone picked up on Alfred immediately.

Yes, the chain bit...exacerbated it...but...Jenkins had already seemed unsettled by the child.

It irritated Arthur. Regardless of the little one's strength and precociously confident bearing, it seemed painfully obvious how vulnerable he was. He moved a lot when he was uneasy...the way ponies did. Their coltish legs moving restlessly and their tails swishing as they were maneuvered into situations they were anxious about...

Alfred threw the lid open and its hinges screeched. He peeked inside and had such a violent reaction for a moment Arthur feared the thing had been cursed.

"Gah! Bills!" Alfred screeched as he ran his hands through the piles of post. "Bills, bills, gonna repossess my house. Spoiler." He threw a letter into a corner of the trunk. "They did. Like, sorry guys. I missed that payment. Was sorta dead. Sorta _**dead**_. Don't worry Scotland straightened it out."

Wot?

"Hey...what...is this?" Alfred plucked one out. "Dude! It's one from Texas and it's...it's written...in Spanish...I will never know the contents of this letter...unless I marry Google Translate."

"...Or ask Texas to read it," Rhys muttered.

"Oh no, he'll edit it. He might've said something snarky and he'll amend it. And I can't trust Mexico. She'll go the other route and make it seem like he only had horrible things to say-"

"Spain then."

Arthur remained silent...having already spotted his own handwriting on several aged letters.

Alfred blinked and then slowly nodded, "...Spain might work." Satisfied, he returned his attention to the trunk. "Hey look, Dad, here's one from you! Here's another one! And...another one...and…"

Arthur closed his eyes as puzzlement entered the little voice,"That's...that's so weird...why didn't they just forward these to me? They musta gone to the Dead Letter Office after my K.I.A...or my name-change but...Hey...this one says Jones...this one too...Dad?"

"..."

"Dad...is there...something...going on here?"

Arthur took in a deep breath. It would've been wrong to try and conceal it...but...he didn't know how he could explain it gently.

"Your father was investigating a postal issue," Rhys explained.

"That's not what I'm asking."

"I think so," Arthur answered gravely.

"...Are we bookends?" Alfred asked as he tugged the sleeve of Arthur's coat.

Green eyes opened to a small solemn face. It reminded him of brisk early mornings with pale grey light. A sigh of relief would escape him as the church doors released them back into the world. Young America would grip his hand so tightly whenever there were brimstone speeches from the clergy and Arthur had to repeatedly assure him that Judgment Day was not upon the morrow.

The worried, pinched expression on the child's face made Arthur long for the early days of Christianity; when Pagan celebratory methods were more freely incorporated. Somewhere along the way, when the church became a political as well as a moral influence, it got in the habit of associating joy as sin.

He was abruptly reminded of how the Puritans agonized over another's settlements choice to raise a Maypole and tried to rally England's government to deliver a punishment.

A small hand tugged at his fingers...tugged him back into the present.

"I fear so. I didn't receive your letters, either."

Alfred glanced down at his handful of letters and then to the trunk where more resided.

Some had even been opened already by stranger's hands. It made something coil vengefully within Arthur...like a harassed adder.

It surprised him when Alfred looked back up and smiled with certainty. "You didn't forget me."

* * *

Alfred pulled his blanket up and adjusted the overlarge headphones to sit more securely over his ears. He and Dad had splurged for First Class seats and left Rhys to fend for himself in Coach.

Their seats were next to each other and they kept the privacy screen rolled down for dinner.

"Eat your meal too" was the light scolding Arthur gave when it became clear Alfred was devouring his dessert first.

The food was good though it couldn't fully distract him from the dramas of the other day. He licked the spoon coated with fudge from his sundae and he thought about the letters he'd Ziplocked and packed into his luggage.

When Arthur chided him for ordering a cold dessert in the middle of winter and asked what he planned to do when he was chilled to the bone, Alfred quipped that he'd just beg for Arthur's coat knowing the man had a soft spot for pitiful things.

After they finished and the food and beverages were cleared away, Arthur's coat landed on top of him. When he peeked over it. Arthur slipped him a pastry he'd saved from his own dinner.

Geez...Dad was getting downright gushy. Wasn't even gonna make him ask or take the opening as a chance to scold him…

Bickering had been part of their dynamic so long...it felt kinda weird going so long without it. Though...his Dad had been kinda weird and getting weirder for a while now. The old man had remarked that it might be better if he let Arthur go through some of his letters and weed out "Bad" ones. Ones he'd sent in frustration or anger.

Alfred shut down that request though with a stern: " _You keep telling me I'm allowed to have feelings. You are too."_

He'd only read two so far. Yeah, one had been kinda...angry...upset at Alfred's "selfish inappreciation" of his father's efforts to "shield him" and that was irritating. But...the sting was offset by the tear stains…

And the other was one of those elusive invitations to Arthur's annual Winter Ball. Only when he'd waved it in front of him, green eyes had zeroed in on the long broken wax seal.

Alfred had tried to explain that at the Dead Letter Office they sometimes opened mail to try and identify the addressee but Arthur didn't go for it. Alfred didn't really either, but...he liked to think that some of the letters were there by mistake. There were a few 'Alfred Kirkland' ones from 1814 that were legitimately stamped DECEASED...though why those were kept and not thrown away...meanwhile some of his Jones ones just weren't delivered…

And now there was a good chance that Arthur hadn't been getting his letters either for some time.

Alfred frowned. He remembered distinctly...that he'd sent a book...to Arthur…

Maybe _that_ was The Book he was looking for? Because he'd taken a look at the chimney stash and known immediately that none of those spellbooks were what he was questing for.

He polished the pastry off, cuddled into Arthur's coat, and tried to follow the plot of the inflight movie.

* * *

Alistair's red eyebrows twitched, "Who the hell bought you that damn straw?"

"Rhys did! He went to the store this morning after we landed," Alfred answered—fingers tracing the loops of his crazy straw. He then blew bubbles into his cup of chocolate milk.

Hell's bells, it was too early in the morning for this.

"And here I thought we got rid of yeh," Alistair grumbled as he sat across from his nephew at the table. He'd been nagged into helping Arthur's housekeeper, Charles, make the London house ready for their arrival the previous day.

He hated playing as Rhys's minion, but the fact of the matter was whenever he took ill...that was the brother who came to his aid. It made it hard to turn down sincere requests.

Alfred grinned, "Nope!" He played with the straw by poking the top through the gap in his bottom row of teeth.

So he'd lost one huh? He was gonna lose another if he didn't mind his manners! Arthur was really letting things go to the dogs if he wasn't reprimanding Alfred for any etiquette at all.

"Stop that!" He gestured at the splashes of liquid dripping onto the table.

Alfred very deliberately blew more bubbles.

Little brat! Alistair reached across the table and snatched the straw away.

The mismatched blue eyes stared.

Alistair set the straw down on his napkin.

Little cheeks puffed and then Alfred stuck out his tongue and blew a raspberry.

Alistair pointed a threatening finger. "Warning you laddie. Do that again and I'll snip that tongue off."

He made a scissoring motion with his fingers.

Alfred mulled that around and then defiantly blew another raspberry

Alistair slapped his hands down and stood up. His chair screeched. "Tha's it!"

He lurched forward to, as Reilley would say, 'put the fear o' Jaysus in him.'

Alfred shrieked and sprinted away.

Alistair chased him up the stairs and saw with belated horror that the child was racing towards the Master Bedroom.

"Oi! Stay away from-"

Alfred slipped through the double doors.

Alistair cautiously followed.

"Get outta there," Scotland hissed because he'd been warned that the room's inhabitant had been in a foul mood all morning.

Alfred lifted the blankets at the foot of the bed and went under.

Fuck.

Alistair glared at the little lump as it moved up in the bed.

His heavy footfall made a floorboard squeak and the Scotsman's breath caught while he waited for some sort of reaction but...nothing...

Maybe Arthur was asleep and hadn't heard?

He dared to get closer.

Alfred was near the head of the bed now. The Scotsman caught sight of a glimmer of gold at the edge of the blanket.

Maybe he could grab him and go. He took another few steps forward and was about to reach for his nephew when he noticed two venomous green eyes were watching him.

Alistair crossed his arms and stood his ground—unwilling to be visibly cowed by his youngest brother.

Arthur met his challenge by propping himself up with one arm.

Dammit all. Arthur had that look. That pissed off I-want-a-brawl delinquent look.

"Why are you in here, Alba?"

Fuckin' lion's den.

Alfred crawled out from the blanket, looked over his shoulder, and giggled.

Stupid cub! Baiting him in here.

"Chased me," Alfred answered.

"Chased you?" Arthur sat up and smoothed the child's mussed hair. "Whyever did he do that?"

"I stuck my tongue out at him."

"Did you now? Sounds like a dangerous sport. He has quite a temper, you know?"

Alfred giggled again and made his way into Arthur's arms which obligingly wrapped around him.

Arthur leaned back against the headboard.

"Said he was gonna cut it off!"

"He was being a brat," Alistair grumbled in his defense.

"He took my straw!" Alfred pouted.

"He was blowing bubbles and making a mess!"

"Ripped it right outta my mouth and everything, Daddy."

That was when Alistair knew he was in dangerous waters. Rhys had warned him that Alfred was remembering things. He certainly was; he remembered which chords he could pluck to instigate "Daddy's" vengeance. And Arthur was a finely tuned instrument of retribution that longed to be played.

"Is that so?" Arthur's voice was deceptively soft and Alistair was backpedaling his way out of the room.

Rhys had specifically told him that morning to stay out of Arthur's way. That his people's displeasure with the EU was making him surly and that certain more mysterious triggers that Rhys wouldn't disclose over the phone, made him dangerous.

"...I guess I did kinda make a mess though" Alfred admitted. "I just...it's so weird. The straw can go right through my teeth. Cuz-cuz-cuz of the missing one. It can go right through!"

"Right through?" Arthur asked indulgently.

"Yes!"

Good. He was distracted by his offspring. Dammit. His boot made another floorboard creak.

"Leaving us so soon, Alba?" Arthur asked.

The hairs on the back of Alistair's neck stood on end.

"Busy. Lots ta do. I gotta run by the market and-"

"Then I'll be quick. Let's make a pact. Us three. That we won't go snatching things what are not ours."

Alistair glared at his brother who glared right back.

"Otherwise," Arthur gave a syrupy smile. "I might decide you have something that _**I**_ want, Brother. And if it's just a contest of speed and force..." His teeth were sharp in that grin.

And for a horrible moment Alistair envisioned Arthur reaching for him and wrenching his jaw off. Dark energy crackled off of Arthur in waves and Alistair vowed to do tarot reading and soon.

Alfred seemed to realize only then that he'd unleashed something that could spiral out of hand and hastily tried to perform damage control.

He wriggled to gain attention and asked, all sweet concern, "Daddy, are you still tired?"

"A-a little bit, Sweet," Arthur murmured—going docile once more.

Alfred gave an exaggerated yawn and stretched his arms like an airplane, "Me too."

Had to hand it to that manipulative little bastard; they settled in for more rest and Alistair retreated from the room.

He closed the door with a sigh of relief and turned to find a scowling Rhys in the hall. He was a little out of breath and had no doubt been signaled by the dark aura a few moments ago.

He took an oven mitt off to waggle a finger, "I warned you, Alba. Albion's not to be trifled with right now. _**Don't**_ provoke him. Why do you think I had you and not Reilley here? I trusted you to have more sense."

* * *

Read & Review Please : D


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia.

 **Warning:** Some profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Elizabethan makeup was poisonous. Ragequitting:a video game term for those who get so worked up they stop playing something forever. Brief reference to Gaslighting...which is a form of emotional abuse where you make someone doubt their memory or their perception of a situation.

 **AN:** Thank you for your reviews! I've been stealing minutes here and there to finish this chapter. I've officially gotten one Final done! Another will be done on Thursday via a portfolio (that I need to have professionally bound tonight or tomorrow XP). Then there's next week...dundundunnnn. One class has two in-class essays, a film project, and a separate research paper. The other final has an exam AND two in-class essays. Sooo clooooose. And now onwards! Enjoy! : DDD

 **Chapter 8: Role Reversal**

* * *

Arthur eyed the clock and sighed—lamenting once again that he'd forgotten his lunch. It was no doubt reclining on the kitchen counter near the phone. He'd comforted himself earlier by noting that he was only scheduled six hours and a visit to the vending machine would keep his blood sugar up.

Fool that he was. Nuisances kept cropping up and now it was nearly one. He should've scheduled another day off, but he'd felt guilty for staying away so long. The snowstorm in the States had kept them longer than he'd thought and he didn't want them associating his caring for Alfred with disregarding his work.

If they drew a negative correlation...what could that mean for his little one or his plan for custody?

If his monarchs and Parliament had indeed conspired to keep his infant...and then his teenager...away from him for fear of...distraction?

What would that mean now?

In a world connected by social media; how would they enforce it?

Goddamn it, when did it first happen? Was it a joint effort between their governments? Was it separate? Did his government approach theirs? Or vice versa?

What about now? Were they still trying to keep them apart even now? It was possible they could try gaslighting Alfred again...

Would they try psychology on Arthur, too? It wouldn't work; England wasn't a fledgling nation. He wouldn't be put through his paces. And if he had to fall off the map (as had sometimes been necessary during various sieges by Vikings and later the Normans or when he had a particularly rotten ruler) so be it.

He blinked; did America even know how to do that? His government lost track of him now and then...but did he know how to disappear? Deliberately?

There were so many things he'd never had the chance to impart.

He'd taken his child's silence as estrangement. That was his mistake. It was his fault. He'd been a fool. Hadn't realized his boy was gagged. He let his pride and hurt blind him. He should've noticed. He wouldn't botch things like that again.

Dammit. He was late to another conference. He'd been running late all that morning and he'd skipped breakfast to make the train.

It was so difficult getting up this morning. Especially when Alfred was cuddled up against him and looked up and mumbled, " _Do you hafta go?"_

If there had been a whine in the words, they would've been easy to brush off, but Alfred's tone was soft and sad and resigned.

And Arthur remembered mornings long ago when the little one would go through the house and jam the clocks to keep them from ringing. Hoping that an absence of chimes would keep Arthur home.

God, he was tired. His body felt heavy. His head hurt and the links Rhys had sent him that morning…

The one about PTSD he understood, but the other…

Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose. He'd already endured three long presentations about what a referendum could mean for their nation. He made it quite clear that if he didn't get one, there'd be hell to pay.

His eyebrows twitched; Joan wouldn't belt up as she followed him over to the water cooler.

O his head was throbbing with a hunger headache and the painkillers he'd taken on an empty stomach left him with a floaty nauseous feeling.

Ugh...

Or maybe it was a lingering vestige of dread holding over from the other day when he'd walked into Alfred's room to find him sorting letters by years.

" _I want to have them in order chronologically before I read them," Alfred explained._

 _Dread seeped in like a breach in the hull and again he found himself wanting to preview them—wanting to remove the worst ones..._

" _Sweet...let-let me have a look through."_

" _Why? Did you ragequit me?" Alfred asked._

" _Wot?"_

 _Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Am I going to find a letter where you cuss excessively?"_

" _I should think not!" He hoped not._

" _-where my every flaw is meticulously recorded with maliciously unflinching brutal honesty?"_

" _..." He...doubted it. Arthur could rant and rave when his passions overcame him...but writing was a more intimate art that required some thought. Arthur couldn't imagine himself writing simply to express anger and disapproval. No...he usually let silence do that. He realized with a sinking feeling...that he'd taught Alfred to react similarly._

 _There had been so many times where the two of them were alone in a room or a carriage...and didn't address any of their problems._

" _Did you write me drunk?" Alfred asked. "Considering it was still quill time, it'd be kinda impressive."_

 _Arthur frowned. He was loathe to admit it but...yes, there had been times when Arthur had gotten...so...drunk...so depressingly drunk...he couldn't avow to exactly what he might've written. He was certain there was at least one or two in there..._

 _The child shrugged a shoulder. "Well, that's too bad. Cuz this is part of my experiment now. I wanna make a record so I can compare the timeline of the ones that I didn't receive, with the ones that I DID receive."_

" _That sounds grandiose."_

" _Yeah, it'll take a while cuz I'll have to gather everyth-but-I told you I'm-I'm-I'm gonna treat them like gears and see where the teeth line up. It'll be easiest to prove with you, since you've always sent me the most post. I'll be able to see the fluctuations more easily. Tex kinda sucks at the pen-pal thing. More of a postcard kinda guy. And Mattie and I send letters on and off."_

" _Alfred...that's...admirable but impossible…" Yes, he remembered the barrel of letters Alfred had of his down in the basement but...even then…that wasn't…_

 _Arthur was a very prolific writer in those days and he'd sent bundles of them once it was clear that Alfred was a strong reader and took comfort in them._

 _And when they're relationship...spoiled...he'd written meticulous business letters...half-hoping they would instruct America on how a grown nation ought to govern himself. He'd riddled them with the vocabulary he thought Alfred ought to have a grasp of...and he made himself deliberately fickle. He knew that if he created_ _enough of a fuss about details that they'd have to meet personally to discuss matters every few years. Because it had hurt him in the gap of years following 1812 to receive human diplomats in his ex-colony's stead. And the note that had accompanied them! Stating that they were better-versed and more eloquent than their personification and that Great Britain would find them better company._

 _It had seemed then like a bumpkin bowing out. He knew now it was a veiled insult; those tradesmen, those diplomats, those high-born, well-rehearsed fops..._

 _They were full of "Yes, Great Britain," "Indeed, Lord Kirkland, most impressive," "O Admiral Kirkland, you're such a wit."_

 _All things England wanted to hear but from someone else. Someone who refused...who was sitting in a darkened house, nursing his broken body, and thinking the absolute worst of Arthur. He wished now that the boy had confronted him loudly, violently, dramatically at the center of a ball or court gathering. That the wounds hadn't been left to fester in secrecy. That Arthur's own outrage at the injuries and his condemnation of his orders being grossly violated would've proved his innocence then. Heads could've rolled if that's what it took to mollify Alfred. Hell, heads would've rolled to satisfy Arthur. He could've called in a favor and sent them to Francis, he'd had enough practice by then._

 _And then he could've cleared matters up between them._

 _"It'd be over three centuries worth of mail. Goodness, you'd have to have every letter I ever sent you…"_

 _The boy didn't make eye contact and ignored him for a good several minutes as he shuffled papers into their proper spots._

 _Arthur's heart twisted and he lurched forward. His shoes trampled over aged parchment._

" _Hey! Careful-"_

 _Arthur swept the child up into his arms and just...took him away...away from all that...to the sewing room._

" _None of those letters matter." Arthur told him later as he measured the boy out for a sweater. "Not really. We know about it. That's the bit that matters. The contents of the letters don't-"_

" _O' course they do. I should have had them. You should've had mine. And it makes you so-so weird! So let's get down to the bottom of it! I-"_

" _That's what the investigator is for," Arthur argued as he tucked wheat strands of hair behind little ears. "That's his job. He'll puzzle it out."_

 _Alfred went rather quiet after that_ — _mutely pointing when Arthur asked him what colored yarns he wanted for his sweater._

 _Arthur became acutely aware that the rocking chair was still at Kirkland Manor when he looked about the room for a place for them to sit. It was a rather solitary craft room; one comfortable chair that could fit him alone and a foot stool. He usually moved in another chair for Olivia when they had craft days. Unfortunately, he had a strong feeling Alfred would bolt if he left him here to fetch one._

 _He decided on the drawing room. With one hand holding a basket of supplies and the other clasping a small clammy hand, he made his way there._

 _He ran his thumb gently over the little fingers._

 _Poor lamb went cold so easily._

 _He forced Alba off the couch so they could settle there. He plucked and arranged blankets to make it more inviting and patted the space beside him._

 _Alfred climbed up and nestled underwing._

 _Arthur had chosen his wooden needles just on the chance Alfred wanted to be near. Even though he trusted himself at this craft; wooden was best; he shuddered to think how an errant flick of metal could scratch that little face._

 _Alfred didn't seem to mind the light jostling of Arthur's arms as he worked. But when Arthur's hands kept botching up the threads and he began cursing every few loops, Alfred looked up at him._

" _You don't have to be scared..."_

He drained the paper cup of water and then crushed it. He knew the child meant well but…

He blinked and looked around. It was strange...it almost felt like he was near—

"Dad!"

He turned to see Alfred waving at the end of the hall. He was standing beside Alistair, who frowned at the child, and then gave him a shove forward. "Get on with it."

Arthur's hackles raised—did Alistair have to be so forceful?

Alfred raced toward his father dodging workers.

Arthur knelt down to accept a no-doubt exuberant bear hug that would probably bruise him by knocking him down when Alfred stopped short. "Wait."

Arthur waited, with arms open, and a growing sense of disappointment. Strange...now he longed for that violent, aborted hug.

The child unbuttoned the front of his coat and extricated a slightly squished paper bag that had "Lunch of Arthur Kirkland" written in black sharpie.

"I fought against my culinary instincts." The boy grinned. "To follow one of your recipes."

Arthur's eyebrows twitched a bit as he accepted the lunch sack. He peeked inside and rather than seeing the ham Swiss, with questionably fresh ham he'd packed that morning, he pulled out a rather savory looking cheese and pickle sandwich. His stomach growled. He immediately unwrapped the cellophane on it and was about to take a bite when—

He noticed Alfred watching him closely.

"Have you eaten?" Arthur asked with concern. His hands were already moving to tear the sandwich in half.

"Yeah!" Alfred frowned. "That's why we're so late. Rhys made me eat first before I could deliver this. He thought it might take awhile to get to you. Meetings and stuff."

Well, at least Rhys was being sensible. Though why he'd sent Alistair with Alfred rather than coming himself…

He took a hearty bite and felt his nausea ebb. The bread was very fresh.

He led the child to a common room where they could sit at a table.

He'd just opened the tab of the fizzy drink his lunch had, when he looked over at his child. He reached over to touch a small, red ear. "Where are your earmuffs?"

Alfred squirmed. "...I forgot."

"And your hat?"

"I forgot that, too."

"And your gloves?"

"I got my gloves!" Alfred pulled the out of his pocket and set them down in front of him. "See?"

"That's a good boy." He'd let Alfred borrow his hat for the journey home. Otherwise, those poor ears might get nipped with frostbite. He couldn't believe neither of his brothers insisted on headwear.

Though...as Alistair sat down on Arthur's other side, he noticed the Scottish nutter wasn't even wearing a scarf...or gloves. Probably thought Alfred was overdressed.

Arthur frowned. "I understand why Alfred's here, but why are-"

"Well, he doesn't have the best track record with traffic," Alistair muttered lowly.

Arthur swallowed hard. What he'd meant was, why was he there and not Rhys?

"Geez, I'm never gonna live that down, am I?!" Alfred threw his hands up in exasperation. He pushed his sunglasses on top of his head. "Seriously dudes, what am I gonna have to do to prove that it was a one time thing?"

The sclera of his injured eye was clear and white. The iris had a darker ring of blue at the outer edge. Arthur found himself smiling. That darker ring matched the other eye's hue. He was healing up. Those bonnie blues would be back in a matter of days.

"Sooooo...nobody's gonna answer that, huh?" Alfred grumbled.

"That bread's real fresh, hm?" Alistair stated out of the blue.

"I'll reimburse you," Arthur grumbled—annoyed that Alistair always preferred immediate compensation for any small kindness he performed. So he bought a loaf of bread, so what?

" _ **I**_ didn't bake it. Idgit."

Arthur looked over to where Alfred was seated and swinging his little legs. The child beamed and showed off dimples. "Do you like it?"

"Delicious."

"Eat the crusts too. They're good for you," Alfred instructed.

Arthur's smile faltered a bit as he fished out a bag of crisps.

"Barmy brat. Letting Rhys learn ya bake...and well. He'll be holding you to that now."

At the bottom of the bag, Arthur noticed a sticky note bearing a simple message:

 _Hope your day is good. See you later!_

It was signed with a heart shaped doodle and then _Alfred_ in fancy cursive.

When it was time to say their farewells Arthur agreed to bring something home for dinner, and Alistair took him to the side.

"Rhys is worried. Your boy knows you're off and it's throwing **_him_ ** off. Rhys says Alfred's been indulging you for a while. And now he's out and out motherin' ya. Even _you_ must've noticed it with _this_?"

Arthur sighed. Yes. He'd picked up on the role reversal the other night when his child had told him not to be "scared" and had patted his hand yet again in a very familiar mirroring of how Arthur soothed him.

It sprang from love and the best of intentions, Arthur knew that. He just needed to firmly outline what was expected from a father versus what was expected from a child.

At any rate, he supposed it was a step in the right direction. Alfred was at least expressing his love and concern in a more open fashion. And it reaffirmed what Arthur suspected; Alfred watched him very closely for cues and mimicked him.

He knelt down to give the child a warm hug. "I love you, dear." He set his hat over the child's head. "You keep warm. I'll see you tonight. Be nice to your uncles, provided they're nice to you."

Alistair snorted, "I'm always nice."

Little arms wrapped around Arthur's neck and parroted parts of that back. Alas, the 'I love you' wasn't in the echo. Arthur flushed as Joan drew near and likely overheard. "Be nice to your Parliament. Even though they're annoying...and some of them smell funny."

* * *

Alistair released a long sigh and glared at his brother. Aye, he knew he had the whole Yule-jerk-thing splotching his record. It was just a bad time of year for him. They were in February now. It was done.

And...yeah...he wasn't the nannying type and he wouldn't put up with little kid crap...but it wasn't like he needed supervised visits.

Come on now, if he hadn't cracked during Australia's nose picking years, he wasn't going to.

Rhys refused to take the hint. "There are 70 or so-"

"78," Alistair clarified.

"Yes; that's far too many to expect him to memorize. And then there's cups and wands and the major versus the minor. You don't even have worksheets or whiteboards at hand. You ought to break it down. Use them as flashcards. Establish a visual connection first and then-"

"Dammit Rhys, this is my lesson. Shove off."

Hazel eyes narrowed and his nose angled up—signalling his older brother was very irritated. "You've made it too difficult."

"Shove off," Alistair scoffed. "I haven't had the sodding chance to make it " _difficult"_ I only got five minutes in 'fore you came flouncing in."

Alistair knew his nephew was more interested in the pictures than the power of the arcane. What he needed to find out was whether he had any talent. If he did, they'd start in a more practical manner (laying out simple designs and asking simple questions). If he didn't, it'd be memorization drills...like he'd done for Arthur when he was small.

But he had an irritating Welshman to contend with.

And then it happened. Like Alistair was still a petulant little eight year old again.

Rhys's hand found Alistair's ear and gave it a tug. "Alba!"

The hand remained and he received a Welsh lecture about the sin of ignoring his elder brother.

"I'm trying to help you. You need to explain this in a way that Ameri-"

"I could explain it, if yeh'd stop interrupting me!" He growled, slapping the hand away.

The front door opened and closed and a weary Arthur came trudging in with plastic bags smelling of Chinese food.

There were bags under his eyes, a full blown frown on his lips, and his brows were furrowed low. "Tried to overcharge me," he grumbled.

"Daaaad!" Alfred came trotting out to hug Arthur's legs. "You're hooooome!"

It was strange how a dismal day at work melted off for a moment, and his brother seemed young and refreshed.

"Yes…yes, I _**am**_ home, Sweetling. Were you good?" Arthur asked softly—his green eyes were tranquil as Rhys took the bags from him into the kitchen.

"I tried," Alfred claimed proudly.

They chatted about stupid little things as they slowly followed after Rhys.

"Here," Alfred flung an arm towards Alistair. Alfred was holding _The Tower_ card...upside down.

Wales had come back to ask what sort of silverware they wanted to use; since chopsticks (which were kept on hand for Hong Kong) would require handwashing the next day.

All three Kirklands shifted uneasily at the sight of the card in their youngest family member's hand; the tower was a rather...unlucky card to have appear in any shape or form. He was holding it in the Reversed position; which meant a nasty surprise was on the way.

"This one's left over," Alfred shook it.

Alistair cautiously accepted it and looked over at the room behind them. Alfred had built card castles, bridges, and houses.

A thick red eyebrow twitched; he'd treated the cards as toys.

Arthur flushed a deep red as he realized what his offspring had done with his brother's divination tools. He gently pushed the child behind him. "Er...Alistair, I'm dreadfully s-"

But Alistair held a hand up. "Al?"

The child's blond head peeked around his father's legs.

Alistair knelt down and beckoned with a square finger. "C'mere."

"Am I in trouble?"

"No, Sweet, next time just-"

"Depends." Alistair stated. "Answer faithfully now. Why'd ya make things?"

"Huh?"

"Why not lay them down in a design? Why not sort 'em out—yer favorite pictures versus the rest?"

The child scratched his ear. "I-I dunno. I asked a question. Like you said and then...I just ended up building stuff. I...I wasn't really thinking. I usually don't make bridges cuz I'm not very good at them."

"What'd yeh ask them?"

Alfred chewed at his lips.

"Yeh heard me laddie, what'd you ask them?"

"...Would my flight magic return?"

Alistair felt a twinge at that. That was a rather personal question. He should've asked in a lower voice. Ah well. Too late for that now. "Ahhh. And they're showing you: A house. A palace. And a bridge. Now what's that tell us?"

The child shrugged.

"Nono, come on. Why build a bridge in 3-D? Not just draw one out on the floor?"

"It looks neater?"

"Is it hail and strong this way?" Alistair asked—guiding him to the answer.

Alfred shook his head.

"No," Alistair agreed. "It's flimsy."

"I'm a flimsy flyer?" Alfred connected the dots and was aghast.

"Wait, wait. Let's not jump ahead." Alistair warned. "Let's think; If we don't want card structures to fall. What must we do?"

"Put them together well?"

"Aye."

"Not breathe too hard on them?"

"Aye."

"Keep Texas away from them?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Not stomp around them?"

"Aye."

"Be...be cautious?"

"Well done." He patted the lad on the head. "They say yeh will be flying again. But tell yeh to be cautious. Tomorrow, I'll show you some patterns you can layout. They'll make getting the answers from the cards easier and yeh won't have to play twenty questions."

A brilliant smile lit up his nephew's face. "Kay!" And in a burst of childish affection threw his arms around his uncle. "That was way easier than Numerology, Uncle Al. And they all acted like your lessons are all hard and scary."

"Yeh know better now." Alistair stood up with his nephew on his hip. "They're only that way to talentless idgits."

"Yay!"

"Let's celebrate by eating in the fancy dining room Arthur keeps off limits."

"Yaaay!" The Scotsman got another hug and then his nephew wanted down.

The little'un clambered over to the right hand spot of the dining table. Alistair chuckled and retrieved the two plush cushions they'd been using for Alfred's seat in the kitchen. He and Rhys had decided to elevate him during lunch. Otherwise, they'd be treated to another meal where Alfred's arms roamed like errant antennae trying to reach for things instead of just asking. Rhys had told him that if Arthur wasn't present, Alfred didn't ask for help. Plus, the dining table was even higher up and if they wanted to see his face...the cushions were essential.

Alistair nodded blithely at his two stunned brothers and felt rather satisfied with how that went; his nephew had a spark of talent. And why shouldn't he? Just because Eire, Gwalia, and Albion were no good at cartomancy, didn't mean America had no chance by default.

He was Alba's relative just as much as them.

* * *

Alfred peered up at the bookcase on his tiptoes. Dad had all sorts of cool looking books. He really wanted a large one in navy blue. It had gold lettering and boasted nautical mythology. He was sure reading from it would cheer Arthur up. And his dad really needed it; he'd seemed down today, too. Maybe he needed a beach day? Yeah, it was winter and cold...and horrible. And the sand would get everywhere and he'd have to wring it out of his underwear (even if he never sat down in it). But Arthur loved the ocean no matter the weather. And Alfred could put up with all that, if it made him happy.

The sea always worked magic on Father. When America was little it used to bother him immensely…that the ocean held such sway...that it owned a part of England's heart that he'd never have. And it always pulled him away like the tide receding...

And then America got older and learned to accept the fragments he got. Like shards of broken bottles on the beach...you could have that...or you could have nothing.

Arthur had mentioned a while back that Alfred was a piece of his heart and blah blah blah necessary for his happiness…

Only...he hadn't been very happy at all lately...

Alfred was still just a piece…

And a piece was, by definition, a small thing...and Arthur seemed to have a big problem...and having this piece with him...didn't seem to be helping all that much and he wasn't really sure what he could do about it.

Alfred sighed and stared up at the book. He couldn't reach it. Damn his unimpressive reach. It was waaaaay up at the top. Even if he pushed a chair into position underneath and climbed the back, he'd still be at a loss.

Well aware that here on the floor, he had no chance, he still futilely stretched a hand towards it.

Oooh, he wanted it so bad.

Blue eyes focused hard on it. On the treasure way up that he desired.

" _Dyami…"_

 _The clinking of roanoke beads…_

 _Watching branches wave against the night sky…_

 _Hearing hatchlings chirp from newly made nests and wanting to see…_

 _There was a strange canoe on the water...wider and larger than any he'd seen before. It even grew trees in the middle!_

 _It was a marvel from his Water-Father. A gift? A sign?_

 _Joy and curiosity blended in a dizzying whirl of buoyant cheer._

 _Made him feel lighter and lighter and—_

His fingers touched the blue book's spine. He tugged it out from its spot and hardly dared to look down. Still, he risked a look and wiggled his toes in their bright striped socks and giggled.

He was doing it!

He was totally doing it!

He was—

"Alfred?"

"GAH! Ooof!"

He'd lost it…

Ouch...he landed on his butt hard.

The door opened with urgency.

"I heard a crash."

Arthur looked up to the gap on his shelf and then down at where Alfred was sprawled and launched into a powerful round of fussing and scolding.

"Are you alright? Are you hurt? Sweet, you should've fetched me! I told you not to go climbing. O are you hurt?"

The American was torn between sharing his latest adventure and keeping it a secret. He opted for the latter; once he'd perfected it, he could surprise Arthur with his skill.

"Can we read this?" Alfred held up the book.

"Of course we can, darlingheart. Of course. Are you certain, you don't need ice?"

* * *

Arthur tossed and turned in a cold sweat.

 _A ringed hand was on his shoulder and it may as well have been an anchor the way it weighed him down._

 _It came again!_

 _The cry! It made his breath catch, his eyes searched the space. All the bland smiling faces of court as they set down for a meal tormented him. Many had painted their faces with ceruse...with...white lead and vinegar…cochineal reddened lips and cheeks._

 _Herbs and perfumes masked the smells of rotting teeth and gout._

 _He refused to wear makeup if he wasn't on stage._

 _There was music and merriment but...a baby was crying and no one took note._

 _He pulled his wig free and tossed it away._

 _Everyone kept talking. Mundane things._

 _The French and the Spanish were mocked._

 _Arthur's fingers twisted in the ruffles of his sleeve and a baby went on crying as his needs went unmet._

 _He stood up._

" _Arthur, you are making a scene," His Queen scolded._

 _Her fingers held fast to the ruffles, but he didn't stay._

 _The fabric ripped and there were snickers as he left his sleeve behind._

 _As he left her side to search._

 _ **His**_ _baby was crying._

He jerked up and practically fell out of bed.

He rushed over to the bedroom beside his and immediately heard soft sounds of distress. He knew it! He knew it had been too soon to send him off to sleep alone. Stupid Rhys insisting on it! Now his child had gone and had a terror!

The lights were already on and he found Alfred...on the ground. Why was he on the ground? His little fists were balled up and rubbing roughly against his eyes.

Arthur flinched; that was no way to treat that poor injured eye. He knelt down beside the child and realized belatedly that there were still letters all over the floor.

God, if his letters were to blame for this, he'd gather them up in a bin and burn them tonight.

"Kn-knock," The child sniffled. "You-you should knock. It's polite-"

"Hang what's polite," Arthur muttered. "What happened?"

"N-nothing. I fell...on my head."

"How?!"

"Out of bed?" The child's head tilted as he said it, which let Arthur know immediately he was lying.

"With the lights already on?" Arthur remarked as he checked the little head for lumps. Just in case...

"...I... was trying to do a handstand."

"At 2 in the morning?" Arthur replied skeptically.

"...I...tripped?"

"I don't see any marks. Did you fall? Did you really? Tell Father the truth."

"..."

Emerald eyes searched his child's face. "Were you lonely, dear?"

Blue eyes blinked at him.

"It's alright. It's alright, my darling. You don't need to lie. You could come in, any time. Just because you were tucked in here, doesn't mean you can't leave. My door was open."

Bare little toes curled around the edges of letters and tried to pick them up.

"Don't do that, you could get a nasty paper cut." He tickled the white feet and after getting a squeal, stood up to fetch socks from the dresser. "Are you suffering insomnia, pet?"

"No."

"Are you sure?" Arthur knelt down and secured the woolen socks on those cold little feet. They were so small and adorable, but the nails were turning purple. "You need to keep these on."

"...kay..."

"Are you listening?"

"Hmm?"

He gestured at the letters on the ground. "Did you read something that upset you?"

"Huh? No."

"Did you have a bad dream? I swear if Alistair said anything about not coming to me when you have a bad dream-You." Arthur released a hard breath. "You." He gave the boy a poke. "You. Come to me when you have bad dreams. Do you understand?"

Blue eyes looked this way and that.

"Sweet?"

Alfred sniffled and rubbed his nose on his sleeve.

Arthur pulled the child into his arms and stood up.

"Hop!"

He made a detour to grab the child's stuffed animals, turned off the light, and returned to his room—determined for them to have a good night's rest. And then in the morning, he could chew his brothers out for their horrid advice.

* * *

Read & Review Please : DDD


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or the King and I's song: Shall We Dance. Or Spiderman. Or Facebook. Or Hostess Snacks. Or Toys R Us. Or The Golden Chippy. Or McDonald's. Or the Disco Duck. Or Harry Potter's Quidditch levels in video games. Shameless Zelda reference in Author's Note. Or Polaroid.

 **Warning:** Some profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Alfred's infuriating tendencies towards stupid ideas. King Pyrrhus. Reilley's that one sibling. Colonial beverages. The British brought over apple trees, realized the colonies didn't have honeybees to pollinate them, and brought over the bees. Bees on a ship in the 1600s. That's gotta be fun, right? XD American Tourist Stereotype: always happy even with somber backgrounds. American: ;D Everyone else: -_-

 **AN:** Thank you for your reviews! I've officially survived the semester! Whoo! XD Yeah! Alive! It's disturbing how finals' stress can just leech the creativity out of your bones...and soul. I had half the chap written out before finals and the other half plotted out…(I finished up Finals on Friday)...I still needed four days to just replenish. We'll see how quick the next chap comes to me; I still kinda feel like Link with one heart container left...and it's blinking. In the meanwhile, hey look! I finally made a cover for this! Ta Da! Because who would take a Polaroid selfie despite dangerous surroundings? Tex and Al. It's so them. XD

 **Chapter 9: Like A Pinned Butterfly**

* * *

Alfred trailed after his dad with a plate bearing two slices of toast—one with marmalade (because Arthur loved the stuff) and the other with good ol' fashioned grape jelly for himself. The Briton was rushing around in search of his preferred shoes from yesterday. He'd kicked them off after work yesterday and couldn't remember where.

It reminded America of his own mad dashes through his house before driving like a maniac over to the Pentagon for a briefing. He tried not to slip into melancholy over the likelihood that his discharge from the military was the beginning of new frightening changes. That he'd find his influence, power, and prestige systematically reduced across the board.

His Driver's License had been confiscated after his initial downsizing for obvious reasons. His passport had been updated to ease travelling. But his recent discharge...and the fact that it was based on this form and not on a loss of ability…

Would it prompt new scrutiny? His regular I.D. was still his older self and he was listed as 19 on all of his legal documents. What would happen if all that stuff was changed over to reflect his new "age?"

Thank God his government always moved slow. They were still trying to ferret out details on how Calm Waters Clinic bypassed their background checks. He probably had a whole year (maybe two) before they wondered over whether or not Alfred should be able to write checks.

It would give him time to piece together an argument. He was inhuman. He'd use that for all it was worth.

He'd prove that his hyper competency was cause for not being considered a man let alone a child. Hence, why he couldn't be governed by those standards.

It'd be a fine line to walk cuz he didn't want them starting a witch hunt—convinced he was a dangerous abomination in need of extermination.

He was just...not...ugh...

It'd be nice if he could get England onboard; his dad and uncles had pretty much raised themselves in far rougher times with less resources.

But...

He didn't want to add to Arthur's laundry list of troubles.

He'd woken up to a tirade downstairs as Arthur chewed his brothers out for pressuring Alfred to be alone last night when they knew he still suffered terrors. It was kinda embarrassing because while his uncles **had** suggested that he give Arthur a little space because the Briton wasn't sleeping well and a squirmy kid wasn't gonna help with that...he totally didn't have a terror last night.

Alfred pursed his lips; he needed to not have or make more problems. He needed to help his dad fix his own issues. That was the plan. Considering everything his old man had done and been through on his account, it only seemed fair that he be "the rock" for a while.

Yeah, Arthur probably wouldn't like being left out of the loop but...until he was...really okay again...Alfred just needed to deal.

He could wait until Texas arrived to discuss Osha's letters; the other unsettling issue that was cropping up like a thorny weed.

He'd been going through them again yesterday while he sorted out his newest mail finds. It was after turning them over in his hands several times and having two of them sit side by side...he realized that all the lines he'd dismissed as careless pen scribbles or recycled paper markings were deliberate. It was some kind of map puzzle, but he hadn't figured it out yet. Osha was so damn lucky he was a pack rat, otherwise he could've thrown some away and missed out on a clue. He had crumpled several in anger, but he always wound up smoothing them back out.

Dad would probably do something drastic if it was revealed that something was in the works...and it was by Osha's hand...no matter how distant...

He'd freak.

Alfred eyed the deep bags under the man's eyes and how his shoulders slumped.

He'd totally freak.

Arthur paused to look into the hallway mirror; he straightened his tie and then double checked his cufflinks.

"Hey Dad?"

"Yes?" Arthur replied distractedly—smoothing his eyebrows with a hand.

"Breakfast?" He proffered the plate.

"Hm? Oh, thanks! Cheers!" They toasted their...toast and laughed.

They sat down on the bottom step of the staircase and chattered about their plans for the day. Arthur had quite a few tasks at work to tackle. Alfred was hoping for another tarot lesson.

The mood was so light, it was almost a shame he needed to bring up business, but maybe even that could help. Could show that Alfred wasn't wallowing over his...issues and was taking care of what he could? "Dad, I...I don't wanna sound pushy but...w-when can I-I use your office? I mean, will we have a system? Like certain days of the week?"

He wanted to keep up on what few duties he still had. He had that...itch...that inkling that infrastructure was compromised in quite a few areas; like a fractured rib. If you breathed in too hard, too fast, you felt the sting.

It'd be a pain in the butt bringing it up, though. Everyone was up in arms on defending funds to inner city music programs for lower income neighborhoods and the like, that nobody except him wanted to be the champion of structures that demanded maintenance. He got why; in emotional arguments, it was easy to see how people should take precedence over bridges and levees. The pathos and ethos angles always tugged at heartstrings.

But the fact was...bridges and levees _**kill**_ people when they're not kept up to code. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.

He needed to start some kind of 'Be a hero for the inanimate' campaign; even plants had some kind of defense. But buildings and tunnels and stuff? They just had to stand there and take it. Having glass bottles thrown at them, being shot up, being tagged without their consent, folks spitting or peeing or leaving gum and trash...

It was the ultimate abuse-to-the-doormat relationship.

Arthur dug around in his pocket. Alfred watched as Arthur pulled out his set of keys. He worked a small one off the ring.

"Here. Have one of your uncles take you to a hardware store and make a duplicate."

It was given so easily...Alfred's jaw went slack and he wasn't sure how he felt. He wouldn't have enjoyed a monologue about responsibility and wouldn't have endured it with Peter Parker's easygoing composure, but he kinda liked to think it was a big deal. Arthur was the ultimate Keeper of the Keys. Dude had a vault for all of his important ones.

"T-thanks."

He cradled it carefully in his palm while they went to the kitchen and found Rhys there with a teapot.

"Wyt ti isio paned o de?"

"Yes, I would, please," Arthur replied as he got out milk for Alfred.

Alistair turned a page of the newspaper and nibbled toast with raspberry jam. He read aloud the weather forecast.

Alfred's elder relatives discussed weather like grumpy old men—grousing about snow and then reminiscing about winters passed and then trying to one up each other by comparing various seasonal disasters in their lands.

Alfred turned the key over in his hands and laughed at the crotchety sibling rivalry. Three pairs of thick eyebrows raised in befuddlement and he laughed harder.

"It's…" Alfred giggled as he looked around the table. "It's...just, you guys...you...we…" He gestured around himself. "Weather...talking...Like we're a family."

"Numpty," Alistair scoffed as he stirred more sugar into his cup. "We _**are**_ a family."

Alfred shrugged a shoulder, "Yeah, but...ya know, a _**real**_ one."

Alistair frowned, "What koolaid are you drinking laddie? We-"

"Alas, they _**are**_ related to us, Sweet...by blood. Unfortunately."

Frowns were sent Arthur's way, but he smirked and ruffled Alfred's wheat hair.

It was after Arthur departed for work that Alistair turned to him. He reached over to flick Alfred's ear. "The hell were you doing last night?"

"H-huh?" Alfred rubbed his smarting ear.

"You were like a pinball banging around the walls. Yeh smuggled Hostess sweets in, didn't you?"

"Errr." It was...actually a pretty apt description for his activities. And...yeah...he did have one emergency Hostess Cherry Pie.

"Were you dancing?" Rhys asked. "Eire dances sometimes. Sounds like he's being chased by a mob."

Alfred released a slow breath as he concentrated. He raised several inches off his chair.

Alistair turned to Rhys and shook his head. "I don't want to even hear you complain about Eire. I'm the one who always ends up having to bunk with him-"

Alfred frowned. They weren't even paying attention!

"Hey guys-"

"Then spend for separate accommodations-"

Alistair hissed through his teeth, "Do you know what they charge-"

Alfred crossed his legs under him to avoid bumping the table and rose several more inches.

Rhys sighed, "Alfred, sit down nice...ly?"

"Losh!"

Alfred grinned while his uncles gawked.

He then settled back in his seat. "I can levitate up and down but it's hard steering. I can kick off stuff but...overcoming the initial inertia is just...hard and I can't really go outside to practice."

Wide eyed, Rhys nodded, "Yes, that would be unwise-"

Alistair brushed his hands together—freeing them of crumbs and then stood up. "Alright; We're goin' to _Toys R Us_ and gettin' some hula hoops. We'll fashion a little gauntlet fer ya to practice in."

"Like the Quidditch Rings in Harry Potter video games!?"

"Yeh, whatever."

"I don't think Arthur's going to approve of you making an obstacle course inside his house," Rhys replied.

"You can't tell Arthur!" Alfred argued.

Both men frowned.

Alfred kicked his feet, "I...I wanna...surprise him. I wanna get good at this and then I want to surprise him. This part's gonna have all the bumps and bruises and messups. It'll make him worry. I want him to see me after. Ya know? When I'm an ace flyer."

Alistair's head tilted as he processed the request.

"No," Rhys replied abruptly and pulled out his cellphone.

"Uncle Rhys!" Alfred choked in dismay.

"No," The man repeated as his fingers tapped the screen.

"But-"

"No."

"What if I-"

"It's done."

Alfred stared; at first stunned and then his cheeks puffed, "That was really low! The hero was just trying to-"

Rhys's phone rang and the man answered it, "Yes. Yes. Indeed. I witnessed it with my own eyes. As did Alistair."

"Ugh, s'not like I was goin' to deny it. Yeh, clipe."

Rhys handed the phone to Alfred.

" _Is it true? Was it deliberate? Or did it happen suddenly? Are you alright? Was it exhausting? How high did you go? Did you land safely? Did it_ _ **just**_ _happen?"_

Alfred blinked at his dad's rapid fire questions.

" _Alfred? Alfred, are you there?"_

"Y-yeah. I mean, it's not completely back. I mean I can't just zoom around like I used to. I can…" Alfred sighed, "...float up and down." Man, that just didn't sound real impressive.

" _That's wonderful! Topping! I knew you'd recover the skill. Here's what we're going to do, popkin, we'll devise a safe way for you to practice. We'll think of something. We will."_

He sounded...excited. Alfred hadn't been expecting that.

"Uncle Al wants to take me to _Toys R Us_ so we can get stuff for me to practice with-"

" _Put me on speaker, dear."_

Alfred sighed and complied.

Arthur made it clear that he wanted to be a part of the _Toys R Us_ trip and to delay it to the weekend. Alistair surprised Alfred by begrudgingly acquiescing.

After a few more questions, a promise to not do it in public if he could help it, and agreement to a dinner out, the call ended with a mushy goodbye and Alfred handed the phone back to his uncle.

When Rhys pocketed the device and focused his attention back on Alfred, the American put his all into delivering a powerful glare.

Rhys didn't flinch. "He needed to know."

"I'm allowed to have secrets!" Alfred insisted—scooching away from the table and making his chair screech. "And to choose who I want to know them!" He jumped down and stalked off.

"Yeh could've at least pretended to contemplate it for half a second. Like me," Alistair muttered on Alfred's behalf once he thought their nephew was out of earshot.

Alfred sighed from where he was eavesdropping just outside the room. So even his favorite uncle didn't think he merited a right to privacy. Shoot. Uncle Al would've been his second choice to discuss Osha's letters with if he couldn't hold it in until Tex arrived. Reilley was never on the list because he'd blab at the first lull in conversation. Rhys was way too by the book not to snitch to Arthur. And now Alistair was turning out to be a tattletale as well.

It was weird. Yeah, he knew they were brothers and brothers were supposed to...watch out for brothers…

But he'd never really witnessed it before.

The United Kingdom had always been kinda lacking in the "united" part. Plus, Alistair had covered for him for in all sorts of misadventures prior to this. It was like his uncle was changing alliances.

He blinked as he remembered Alistair grumbling " _Go easy on him_ " and " _Nobody_ _ **drags**_ _me anywhere."_

Alfred's jaw dropped. His Uncle Al had a soft spot for Arthur. In that, he's my irritating-younger-brother-but-he's-mine way.

He'd have to start planning around it.

* * *

England pinched the bridge of his nose—having received a rather passive-aggressive email from his Prime Minister. It was over his frank admission that the people were dissatisfied with the EU and that change was vital otherwise something was going to happen. What it would be, England couldn't say...but whatever it was...it was likely to be a pain in the arse.

It likely didn't help matters that Arthur was launching an official investigation (with the support of the Royal Family and his military) into the handling of his post from 1770 until now. That rocked the boat. Most of Parliament (in his one-on-one encounters) were compassionate to his face after being informed and claimed that they understood his deep concern. Which was why it came as a rude shock when he was told in rather blunt terms during the session that his worrying over issues rooted deep in the past were distracting him from the present and could have disastrous consequences for them all.

The next meeting point was brought up, there was a shuffling of papers and...apathy...and...

It was in that moment that England understood why his son had thrown a desk through a window last year. It was...very tempting.

He chose to eat lunch in his office, so he could guard against acting out badly and jeopardizing his future plans. (He wouldn't be viewed as a suitable custodian for Alfred if he couldn't reign in his temper.)

Now, he wasn't sure when Alfred had managed to slip it in, but there at the bottom of his brown bagged lunch was another dear Post-It: " _U R a hard worker._ " Signed with a heart and Alfred.

He immediately tried to call home. Unfortunately, he'd forgotten to charge his cell and he had to use his office's new phone. Prickly the Plant had made short work of the previous one months earlier in his violent takeover of the office.

Since the number was "unknown," he half-expected his family to let the machine catch it and then call him back.

Instead, Alfred answered formally and Arthur felt his heart warm at the words, " _Hello! Kirkland Residence, may I take down your message?"_

"It's me, darling."

" _Dad! Hey Dad! Daddy! Guess what?"_

"What?" He really hoped the child wasn't experimenting with his flying skills. While Arthur was deeply relieved that the talent had reawakened (its absence had caused his child such pain), he definitely wanted to be present to outline safe and unsafe behaviors.

" _Uncle Al, and Uncle Rhys, and me-I mean 'I' are—wait, you can't have 'I' next to the-or can you? Because...plural? Er, list? I give up. Curse you, grammar! Stop it, Uncle Al. Rhys! Tch... laughing at me. Tch. You trolls._ _ **We**_ _are having a magic lesson and-"_

Considering his comments that morning about family, it was further proof that Alfred was slowly recognizing that not only was there a familial unit springing up around him...but that he had a place in it.

He was also subconsciously commenting on his own disconnection from himself and them with phrases such as: " _ **Like**_ _we're a family._ "

Arthur had sensed then that it was an unintentionally loaded statement, especially when Alfred struggled to explain what he meant.

Arthur knew what he was getting at though; People could be biologically related and not be family.

Alfred had been picking up on the atmosphere right then; that alone made Arthur proud. That Alfred enjoyed it and wanted to perpetuate it. THAT. Made Arthur relieved.

The hex was lifted; his world was opening up. And Alfred was quite right. They were beginning to "act" more like family. Arthur's brothers were being unusually amiable. It made him a little nervous for the child; if he got too used to their support and they drew back, it could harm him. Still, it was good he was reaching out...if tentatively. It meant that this year's array of events should go off more smoothly.

Several of the children had emailed him and CCed each other for a group discussion to ensue. Jet and Jake had been particularly bothered that they'd hardly spent any time with Alfred during the winter holiday. Seychelles and Jamaica seconded it. The former complaining she'd interacted with Alfred during a handful of meals and the latter saying she clocked in more time than any of the other women at about 12 hours and none of it was one on one time.

Hong Kong didn't see why this was an issue. Wy thought she saw plenty of him—enough to have a couple of sketches and she scanned and uploaded them as attachments. Sealand bragged that he was probably in the lead because they'd watched the telly together and played games and had a hug and he should now be referred to as "Uncle Sealand."

Arthur group replied that Alfred was acclimating to the situation and they couldn't rush him. The rest of them had enjoyed each other's company for years. Alfred had been a rather solitary figure who was suddenly in the thick of it. They needed to make their expectations more realistic. Arthur thought he did VERY well (especially in the light of being stalked by murderous fae, adapting to a new physical form, dealing with an unsupportive government, a crippling hex, complicated family dynamics, and the trauma of being kidnapped just two months earlier). For God's sake, Alfred was the patron saint of resilience at this point. He had half a mind to recruit Reilley and Antonio to promote his canonization.

He was pleasantly surprised when Barbados supported him. Though...she was a bit...harsh.

She called out the others for "not making an effort" AFTER the holiday. Apparently, she and Alfred were corresponding regularly now and that the American made an excellent pen pal. Now if only the boy would write or call _**him**_ regularly when they were apart. Perhaps, he'd persuade Olivia to delicately broach the subject.

" _And then-then we made this horseshoe thing. I think Tex'll like that one."_ Alfred merrily informed him on how Uncle Al was teaching him tarots and they were making shapes on the carpet and Camelot kept swiping at the pieces.

" _I like the three one. That one's quick."_

"Which one?"

" _You know."_

"I..I'm not certain I do know."

" _Past, present, and future spread."_ Alfred recited. " _But you knew that, you were just testing."_

Arthur smiled a little guiltily. The boy was right; he was gauging how well Alfred was taking to the art. "And Alistair's treating you well?"

" _Yeah, he likes that I've got 'talent' for it. But…"_ Alfred lowered his voice to a whisper. " _I don't think it's cuz I'm good at Divination. I think it's cuz they're made of paper and I'm a plant power."_

Arthur blinked because that was very good intuition at work, if slightly misguided. "Yes; your magic in that area is likely helping you. That doesn't mean you're not doing Divination or that you're cheating, Sweet. It simply means you've found a new way to express your powers. For example, fire reading is another divination practice that-"

" _Ugh, that makes my tummy turn."_

"Hm? Why?" Arthur asked in concern.

" _I dunno. It's fuzzy. I think Osha...and I know lots of tribes used it. And their settlements always smelled of smoke and the sizzling, snapping sounds just—and they don't even cook with it! Or use it to stay warm. "_

And Alfred was a plant power...burning had serious connotations to him. Burning things to burn them just…

England felt a twinge as he remembered a burning White House. Still, America had toted a scorched earth policy many a time...it made him wonder what sort of mind frame the boy was in for him to overcome his innate squeamishness to it.

Arthur jotted it down on his notepad, to save fire divination as a much later lesson. Especially as there were plenty of alternatives; Arthur could show him dowsing divination instead. Alfred would probably like that you could use it to find metals. He knew the boy sometimes went on metal detector quests for loose change at beaches.

* * *

Alfred admired how lamplight glinted off his newly minted key one more time before pocketing it.

He ignored Rhys's hand as it reached for him and tried to skedaddle out of reach...only Alistair plopped a heavy hand solidly on his head. Alfred chewed at his bottom lip. He could cross in a crosswalk by himself people!

Once they were on the curb, he was released.

It was while they were heading over to the restaurant that Alistair lamented his lost chance, "I should have made a double of it. He never lets me use his office. I always got to run out to Fedex or something; usually for some bloody fax machine."

Rhys frowned as he guided Alfred around an icy patch on the sidewalk. "Arthur would not have approved and I doubt Alfred would've permitted it."

"Oh really?" Alistair scoffed.

Alfred blinked as both of his uncles turned to him expectantly to settle the matter.

Alfred gulped.

Stern, hazel eyes looked down."He knows better than to abuse Albion's trust."

Gray eyes glimmered amusedly. "He knows he owes me favors. Paris. Carnival. 1824. Just to name _**one**_."

Alfred flushed.

"He knows that secrets have been the life root of all his miseries as of late."

"He knows that if he does this for me; I'll give him the adult password to the telly."

"He knows I will report you and change that password to something even _**you**_ won't-"

"He knows how bloody irritating it is to be discussed like a pinned butterfly on display," Arthur growled—elbowing both of his brothers and pushing between them to greet Alfred and pick him up.

Arthur opened the door to _The Golden Chippy_ and walked over to the queue, "How are you faring with that lot, love?"

Alfred plucked at the fastenings of his father's coat. "S'okay…"

"What's wrong?" Arthur demanded. "What have they done?"

Damn. Nothing got past the old man and did he have to squeeze him so hard? Like the answer would just pop out like a blister?

"I...I…"

"Yes?"

"...I just wanted to surprise you with it after I got good again!" Alfred blurted and then crossed his arms sullenly. Geez, some Fort Knox.

Arthur's hold on him relaxed and he chuckled. "Oh. Ha, well...I'm surprised. I'm very surprised. It's a good surprise. And heaven knows we needed one."

As they waited, the American read the menu and before he realized he was doing it—he found himself scolding his dad for having never taken him here. It had tons of tasty stuff!

England just laughed and removed America's hat and earmuffs—tucking them into pockets, so Alfred wouldn't overheat in the toasty restaurant. "Well, you should've reconciled with me sooner. All the tasty meals I could've treated you to."

Alfred studied him. The words were light and the man was smiling, but something sad and heavy was lodged in his eyes. It made them a darker green and the shadowy bags under them made him seem quietly haunted.

"Guess, you'll have to make it up to me then,." Alfred declared.

But if Arthur's eyes gave him away, Alfred's voice did the same; he couldn't quite get the note right and instead of sounding sassily obnoxious...something like regret hollowed it out.

He was held that little bit closer and Arthur's hand rubbed his back soothingly as they made their order.

Later when their food was ready and they found a table with enough room for them all to sit down at, Alfred whipped out his phone—determined to use this night as an opportunity for fun.

"Everybody lean in. I know you're UK-ers, so you don't have to smile, but look pleasant; otherwise we'll give that American at the Tower of London vibe. Cuz Yankees can grin anywhere," Alfred instructed as he did a group selfie. It would've been easier if he'd had a better phone than this generic backup and its limited array of features. Maybe he'd find a replacement while he was here.

Still, the pic was good. Though…

"I forgot to wear shades today," Alfred mumbled in shock. His relatives had treated him so...so _normal_ that day, he'd forgotten his eyes were mismatched.

"You look smashing," Arthur complimented fiercely. Alfred blinked, startled that he'd been overheard so easily and that Arthur had that look. That look he got at meetings when he just wanted to argue something, usually with France, but sometimes with him; with him, it tended to be about the environment or childhood obesity rates or McDonald's.

Alfred didn't argue because he didn't feel like having a lecture about beauty being on the inside and all that crap. And...well...he looked at the photo again. He didn't look...that bad. And if it bothered him later, he could photoshop it.

He posted it to Facebook commenting that you knew they were family because he inherited their love of all things deep fried.

After a quick grace and a surprisingly amiable "Cheers" complete with clinking glasses— though Alfred's beverage was nonalcoholic, they dug in.

After two tall glasses of beer, Arthur started mellowing out...though not enough for Alistair to slip Alfred a sip from his glass.

"He can't have that, Alba. You'll make him sick."

Alfred's cheeks puffed. "I drank just last year! I used to drink all the time in my Wild West days. Heck, even in my colonial days...as a kid! You were there!"

"No, no, that was different then," Arthur waved a hand. "Water was stagnant and dangerous and the proof was much, much lower than today's standard. And I gave you cider."

"Hard cider."

"Diluted cider. Moved apple trees and honeybees and everything you needed. And even then we almost always had a cow. And I brought you chocolate. And I brought you tea. You liked it then."

Alfred received an irritated frown from his elder.

The American rolled his eyes. "You're never gonna let that go, are you?"

"Your little tantrum stunt in Boston cost me a fortune. And I was the butt of many a joke on your shores AND mine."

"Yeah, well, think of me."

"Yes, and?"

"That was _**my**_ harbor! Stunk it all up. I threw up for a week! Just the smell of tea for a while made my stomach gurgle all unhappily."

"Now you see? You see? That's the brashness that makes me worry." Arthur pointed a waggling finger. "Didn't think that through. Pyrrhic victory. Do you know what means?"

"I know what that means." Alfred pouted.

"From the Latin, Pyrrhichius, referring to-"

"I know what it means." Alfred's eyebrows drew together as a distant memory stirred.

"A certain historical and semi-legendary figure named-"

Alfred threw his hand up. "Wait! Wait...P...P-pyrrhus the king...the…king of the realm of Ep-pipor-"

"Epirus. Good. He-"

"-fought against the Romans but at such cost…" Memory struck. "That's he's rumored to have said that they couldn't afford another victory!"

"Well done! Very well done."

His back was patted and his shoulder was squeezed affectionately.

It was in the aftermath of being pleased that he remembered something from his early colonial history lessons, that Alfred realized his dad had seemed...more annoyed than hurt when they brought up his Revolution.

And the fact that there'd been no awkward silence or huffy stiffness following it…

He looked up and received a gentle smile and a hair ruffling...and something in his heart...softened. He couldn't tell yet if it was inconvenient or not.

It was while Alfred was stealing the last few fries from Arthur's plate and their group was starting to look over the dessert menu, that Alistair's phone went off.

"What yeh want, bogtrotter?" Alistair greeted. He started to pick up his glass of ale, paused, and put it back down. He pushed it away. "No. No." He looked at the table and rolled his eyes and a pointed the finger of his free hand to the phone, "The Irish nutter thinks we all got together without him on purpose." In a louder voice he continued. "Pft. Yeah well, we didn't think we had to clear it with yeh."

Alistair tapped a finger on the tabletop and Alfred observed his hairy knuckles. Even when he'd been in an adult form, he'd had no manly body hair. Some guys had all the macho luck.

"Dammit man, stop whingeing. You're not bein' discriminated against cuz you're Irish right now-it's cuz you're annoying and we thought you were busy and-No-wha? No. Nooo. Do what yeh will then." He shoved his phone back in his pocket. "Reilley's coming. Apparently, we're not allowed to have fun without him. And he sounds like he's oot-of-his-tree."

"I'll get the socket covers out," Rhys sighed.

"Aye, yeh do that and I'll set up the baby gate on the stairs. He won't be able to vault it, blitzed as he is."

Alfred started to laugh at the butthurt absurdity until his phone pinged and he received an all-caps Facebook message from Tex: _U GOT IT FROM ME!_

* * *

Arthur stood at the ready—arms up over his head.

"You're making me nervous," Alfred muttered.

"How?"

"Put your arms down. I'm not just gonna fall like a rock."

Arthur forced them back down to his sides.

The floor was covered with blankets and cushions and they'd cleared the tables and surrounding area of anything sharp or breakable...but there was something awfully unsettling about seeing your child hovering near the ceiling.

"Try to go to the left," Rhys suggested.

"I can't-"

"Kick your legs."

"It's not like swimming, Uncle Al!"

Arthur reached a hand up, "Take my hand."

Alfred sighed and lowered down until their hands could meet.

Arthur gently began moving in a large ellipse around the room.

"This makes me feel like a parade balloon."

Arthur chuckled and took that moment to pivot and swing him in a circle. "Magic is like a muscle. It has to be strengthened."

"But how?" Alfred whined.

Playing was the obvious answer, but he didn't want Alfred to think he was being patronizing.

Arthur motioned for his other hand and they whirled about lazily.

When Alfred asked what they were doing, Arthur answered, "Stamina Training." He then began to hum "Shall we Dance?"

Rhys sensed his plan and lined up albums of dance music. The three adults then took turns being Alfred's "dance partners." The Disco Duck delighted Alfred and he was soon giggling hard and moving with more zest. Sometimes they led, and other times they _were_ led— confirming Arthur's suspicion that part of the problem was the child overthinking it.

He'd mused on that with Rhys before. Not on Alfred of course but...they'd been half-sloshed and fixated on the orchestra pit. Rambled on about musicians who got so caught up in the numbers of music—the half beats, and whole beats, and music sheet symbols...that they forgot how to feel it. Rhys had been getting rather passionate about it until someone in the third row yelled at them to belt up.

Gradually, Alfred began to tire. He started floating more haphazardly and began yawning.

Arthur cut into one of Rhys's turns when it became clear Alfred was hovering closer and closer to his partner like a ship coming in to dock.

Closer. Closer. Closer.

Arthur encircled his arms around the little one and then fastened him near.

Moored.

What was interesting was...at first Alfred's weight was like a butterfly perching, but he grew heavier as he inferred that Arthur wasn't going to drop him.

When Arthur was fully supporting him, the child nuzzled into his embrace and went slack.

"51 minutes 14 seconds. Nearly an hour." Rhys noted and then documented it in his handheld notebook.

Arthur nodded distractedly and kissed the side of the child's face before he took him upstairs to tuck in.

* * *

Read & Review Please : DDD


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or Pokemon Go. Or Toys R Us. Or the NSPCC. Or McDonald's.

 **Warning:** Some profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Apparently, from several articles I read, quite a few Nordic countries let their kids nap in snow. XD O that would never fly here. Tsyohwʌ́tstakale: seagull. There, one translation cuz it's a tough one to find :P Mulligatawny Soup: Indian dish that's popular in UK—can be super spicy. British emergency number is different than the American one...and arguably...easier? Also, rest easy all: your dose of angst/drama has come. And there's a Tex moment, too.

 **AN:** Thank you for your reviews! XD I'm in that Repair-the-Battlefront Mode; tidying my living space, working, and wading through several semesters' worth of papers/drafts that I need to weed through/shred. I have soooo many papers between school and creative writing ventures...I could paper mache a castle. XD

 **Chapter 10 : Mr. Sassy Britches**

* * *

It was nearly 3 A.M. in the morning when Rhys awoke to the house's alarm going off and a spectacular crash. He shuffled down the hall and flicked a light switch on.

He blinked as Alistair brushed past him—marching toward the staircase in naught but his briefs.

"That's what yeh get, yeh clumsy tosser," Alistair sneered and used his foot to prod at Reilley, who was sprawled on the floor, tangled in a baby gate at the foot of the stairs. The Irishman was deeply flushed and a strong smell of alcohol emanated from him.

Rhys sighed and walked over to the front door, which was wide open. He plucked the picks out of the lock, pocketed them, semi-impressed that his little brother picked the lock despite his highly inebriated state. He closed and locked it before heading over to the security panel which was flashing and beeping shrilly.

Scotland yawned and scratched at the red patch of hair on his chest.

"Who's down there!?" Arthur's voice thundered from halfway up the stairs. He had a medieval mace held threateningly in one hand.

Rhys's eyebrows shot up; Arthur usually favored a cricket bat for investigating suspicious sounds.

"Whoa! Easy!" Alistair barked. "S'just Reilley."

Arthur groaned in irritation. "The fuck is happening down there?!"

Alistair waved a dismissive hand. "Settle down, you."

"And what are you wearing?! My eyes are bleeding."

"Oi, if I was in my own house, I'd be wearing _less_."

The other three Kirkland grimaced.

"And had you done that here, I'd have had to burn the sheets," Arthur muttered.

"Wait! Wait! The hero will-" An exhausted Alfred tripped down the stairs and tumbled into Arthur's legs. His impromptu weapon flew out of his hand and thudded down with a heavy, metallic clang.

Reilley flinched as it missed him by centimeters.

"I fell," Alfred added unnecessarily.

"Oh, Sweet," Arthur fussed as he turned and began assessing him. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah. I-I heard the crash and-"

Arthur carefully picked him up and set him on his hip and turned—making sure the child didn't brush against his mace at any time. "Dearheart, I had everything under control." He gestured at the foyer with the weapon. "As you often delight in reminding me that I'm _ooold_ ," He nuzzled their noses. "I can assure you I've experience with this sort of thing. You were quite safe."

Rhys plugged the password into the security system otherwise they'd get a visit from the police.

The boy whined, "I don't like being the backup. It's like I'm the third understudy and I've no chance of seeing the spotlight."

The stairs creaked as Arthur began ascending. He crooned something that sounded suspiciously like: "Silly goose. You're my star. Of the stage and the sky-"

Alistair grumbled to himself for a moment and then called after Arthur. "Don't worry about us! Or getting ice or anythin.' Go. Ack, just go on now."

The ensuing door slam revealed their youngest brother's sentiments.

Reilley was still flinching—eyes tightly closed.

"You're fine," Alistair muttered as he picked up the pipe wrench. He looked over at Rhys. "The hell was the mite doing with this?"

"Perhaps, he nicked it from the garage or-"

"You never invite me," Reilley accused between hiccups. "You never do."

"S'not like we were having a party."

"You're still angry at me," Reilley sighed dejectedly from his spot.

"I am not."

"Cuz I didn't leap at a chance to-"

"I said I'm not."

"-battle the UnSeelie Court. I can't take risks like that anymore! Not against a whole army!"

"Eire-"

"I can't! I don't know how well I could handle a death by magic! I dunno if she'll inherit my last bit while I'm out."

Scotland knelt down, pulled his brother's legs free, and changed the subject. "What would you have done, if yeh could've climbed up there?"

Reilley shrugged, "I dunno. I might've shaved one o' his eyebrows."

"Just the one?"

"Aye."

Scotland snickered appreciatively and soon both redheads were laughing.

Rhys gave a long suffering sigh; so many chaotic personalities under one roof and when Arthur was so...volatile.

The mace bothered him. It bothered him a lot. From sports equipment to weaponry...quite a jump...

Alistair ruffled Reilley's hair. "Tha's a good one. But wait on it. Let him earn it and then wait until he's shitfaced. Then do it. Right now's no good. You saw. Lion's got his cub with him; he'd have torn yeh to ribbons if yeh'd have loomed over them in the dark."

Rhys shuddered as he thought about that. They couldn't afford to provoke him.

* * *

Texas was glowering at his laptop. He was supposed to check in with him! They had a system! They checked in with each other! Every. Day. Even if it was just a text, or phone call, or Skype or face chat or something!

That's why he'd known something was wrong last June with that counseling session.

He did his part! Yesterday! But...nothing...

"Sir?" Stuart murmured as he set down a tray on Tex's desk. "We missed you at breakfast so I wanted to make sure you had lunch."

Tex ignored him and waited for his brother's avatar to light up. His grip on the desk's edge relaxed as America came on screen.

" _Hey Tex!"_ Alfred giggled and waved.

"Hey you," he replied tersely. "You, who didn't respond yesterday."

" _I didn't?"_ Blue eyes went huge. " _OMG, you're right! I meant to before bed, but...I got tuckered out from flying-"_

"Huh?!"

" _Whoops! Uh, yeah. I'm flying again! Er, well, floating might be more accurate-"_

"You're hanging me out to dry is what you're doing!" Tex howled. "How could you not tell me? How did you... _not_ take a selfie or a video?"

His little brother had a weakness for it. It was a sudden departure from their earlier years where Al had thought photos were way too expensive and kinda frivolous. Tex used to have to twist his arm to get nice portraits done. Now, that they were cheap, Al's love for photography exploded. Tex had lost track of all the plant pics his little bro had on Pinterest.

Still, Tex also blamed the rise of social media and their citizens' addiction to it for Alfie's sudden selfie habit. Heck, Tex found himself taking pictures of food. Of food?!

Tch. Sometimes trends just got divided between them. Like roller disco and perms…

Tex was still hunting down and burning every photo of himself with that awful hairstyle.

Ugh, that was a mistake.

Meanwhile, in the last decade or so, Tex had developed a habit of binge-watching seasons of shows and reality T.V. and Al was obsessively into anime and comics. Tex was nervous about that Poke-whatcha Go? Or whatever the hell ya called it that was coming out in July? Al was already foaming at the mouth in anticipation.

"Sir?" Stuart began. "Are you certain you're alr-"

Tex glowered. "I am taking a private call. Get out. Get out. Get oooout!"

The man shook his head and closed the door.

" _I know, right? It was super hard resisting the 'Selfie-pull' cuz I could get some awesome chandelier shots. I guess I'm a little worried about sending something sensitive like that over the web."_

Good point.

" _Oh! Oh! Hey? Hey, guess what?"_

"Chicken butt."

" _...Classy,"_ Alfred's face puckered.

"I try."

" _Tomorrow, we're going to Toys R Us. It's gonna be awesome! It's gonna be really fun! Right, Dad?"_ Alfred exclaimed standing up in his computer chair. The thing wobbled and gave a lazy spin.

Tex leaned forward. "Uh, Al?" If that chair toppled...

Arthur entered the picture, picked Al up and happily spun him around. " _Yes, it shall, but please don't stand on furniture."_

" _Right, I'm only allowed to abuse furniture when there are goblins."_ Alfred nodded.

" _Uh..er.."_ From the white-eyed chagrined look on old Art's face, it was clear something had been lost in translation.

" _Er...hello, Texas,"_ England greeted distractedly.

"One. Week." He grit out.

" _Yay!"_ Alfred cheered. " _Wow, you're sailing through it!"_

Not...exactly true. But he was leaving in a week. Anything that they needed done, they better set in front of him. Stat.

" _What's that?"_ Reilley demanded as he also entered the picture with what looked like an Eggo waffle hanging from his mouth.

" _Tex is coming in a week!"_ Alfred replied joyfully.

" _Get out of my office, you Taig_ ," England grumbled.

Northern Ireland ignored him, " _He's coming too? Where's he gonna stay? All the bedrooms are-"_

" _Yes,"_ Arthur agreed. " _Two of you will need to-"_

" _No, I'm not sharing,"_ Alistair growled from offscreen. " _I always have to share. It's always me."_

" _It's because you don't move,"_ Reilley explained. " _And you don't get cold, so you don't battle for the covers-"_

" _No. You go to Rhys this time. It's his turn."_

" _Never. He kicks in his sleep."_ Rhys's voice refused point blank.

" _Well, I'm not sharing. God, you lot wonder why I keep fighting for independence. So I can have my own bloody bed to myself and-"_

Rhys sighed, " _Alba, I'm not saying you have to be with him. Stay with me-"_

" _NOT sharing!"_

" _Why does my room have all the cat stuff in it?"_ Reilley asked.

" _Cuz you were here last and that's the price you pay-"_

" _Alba-"_

" _NO-"_

" _You're all crazy. Tex'll bunk with me!"_ Alfred squealed. " _And it'll be funner this time, Big Bro-"_

" _Love, 'funner' isn't-"_

" _Cuz there's no scary fae portals. Alistair double checked and sealed them all up. He went over every square inch. He said so!"_

Arthur's jaw dropped. " _You found more?"_

" _Tight as a drum now. I can go through Parliament too if yeh want."_

" _Yes, I would. Thank you. And…"_ Arthur gestured awkwardly to the room. " _Thank you."_

" _No more Gryms for me!"_ Alfred declared happily as he climbed haphazardly out of Arthur's arms to plop back down in front of the screen.

Tex smiled. "I'm glad."

He was. Honestly. After that fairy fiasco...he wasn't too keen about Seelies, UnSeelies, or whatever-hell-else there were out there gettin' so close to his little brother.

" _Get out of my office, you wankers. Only America has my permission to-"_

Alfred pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pocket, " _I got a list of stuff-_ " He briefly shoved it in front of the laptop's camera before retracting it. " _Stuff that I want to do here cuz I missed out at Christmas: Gingerbread, and a sleigh ride, and diner pie, and a snowman and oooh—s'mores! Yeah, s'mores!"_

" _Now, that's why you're me easy nephew,"_ Reilley pointed to him with the leftover Eggo in hand. " _All o' this could be done in a day! "_

" _Nonono, too many sweets,"_ Rhys and Arthur began and then catching each other's eye unified their argument. " _Those treats need to be spread out over a few days."_

" _Yes, it could make him ill-"_

" _I love you, Big Bro. I'm sorry you feel left out of my loop. Everything's kinda-"_ Alfred looked over his shoulder at his fussy relatives and then back to the screen " _Kirkland-y over here. I'm lookin' forward to having another Jones in the place."_

They spent nearly a half-hour talking about nothing: weather, dinner plans, what groceries Alfred needed to buy that day.

Only...

Al had that fidgety-ness that suggested he had more he wanted to say and couldn't because of all the bystanders loitering around.

Alfred finally gave another look around, sighed, and gave up. He wished Texas a good rest of his day, promised to call him the next day, and signed off.

Before Tex could think too hard on it, his laptop screen lit up and pinged.

"O God," Tex muttered. His hand hovered over the laptop's mouse-pad. He very reluctantly answered the Skype request...for international diplomacy.

" _Hola mijo! Stuart says that you are experiencing emotional distress. That is no good. Tell Papi who hurt your little feelings. Oh! Did you get my Edible Arrangement? I do not know because you did not send me a note."_ Spain leveled a slightly scolding look. " _Papi raised you better than that."_

Texas groaned and rested his head in his hands.

* * *

Alfred sighed—filling his spoon and then letting it drain out.

The place was set at the head of the table, but the chair was empty. It totally gave him flashbacks of his colonial days cuz England was always gone or working in his office or…

It kinda made him want to sit there because then he'd be able to switch his brain into Sovereign Nation Mode and hell...the whole table could be empty and he'd...endure.

He filled the spoon again with the thick corn yellow soup—staring dispassionately at grains of rice.

It had been nice having Arthur home for most of the day, and when they'd gone to the grocery store, he let Alfred choose the sugariest cereal without ragging on him about it. But then he'd finally had to leave for a night session and having dinner without him was just…

He was getting spoiled. Ugh, he could envision it now: he was going be so used to getting the old man's attention whenever he wanted, he was going to make a brat of himself at a World Meeting when England was at the podium and get all butthurt when his questions weren't answered first.

He let the liquid run back out and then set his spoon down.

"Not a fan of Mulligatawny?" Scotland asked while he pushed his half-eaten bowl away.

Alfred fidgeted because he knew Reilley had gone through a lot picking out enough ingredients to feed them all that night.

Alistair reached over and flicked his ear. "Oi."

Alfred sighed. "It's kinda spicy."

Tex would probably love it. He could guzzle the strongest tabasco sauces known to man. He was _that guy_ you could dare to tip back the bottle for five bucks.

Alfred could eat spicy stuff now and then but sometimes...there could be consequences. Wasabi, man. Wasabi needed to be respected. Heck, Japan no longer offered it to him when he visited.

Alistair threw his cloth napkin onto the table. "Alright. Let's go then."

"Huh?"

"McDonald's."

Blue eyes widened with hope. "For real?!"

"Aye."

"Wooooohoo!"

"What's all that rumpus?" Rhys demanded from where he and Reilley were getting second helpings.

Alistair pushed his chair in. "We're goin' out."

Rhys set his bowl on the table a little harder than necessary. "What? Why?! It's frightfully late."

"We're going," Alistair replied.

Alfred had thought that was that and went to fetch his coat, only he came back downstairs to find Rhys was waiting at the front door. Alfred's coat and gloves were not deemed enough for the elements.

It turned out that Rhys was almost as bad as Dad when it came to fussing over winter clothes. He made Alfred wear his scarf, and earmuffs, and hat and two sweaters. And then, just when it seemed like Alfred passed inspection and he and Uncle Al were free to go, Rhys decided to join them.

Unwilling to be left home alone, Reilley came too.

Though the tagalongs made a few snide remarks as they were led to McDonald's, neither tried to interfere as Chicken Nuggets and a Chicken Legend were ordered.

They did tease Uncle Al when he pulled out wrinkled coupons though. Alfred kinda admired him when he managed to get the staff to accept an expired one.

Unfortunately, the restaurant they were at didn't have a Play Place inside so after they were done, he begged for a side trip to a playground.

His uncles scared off some shady teenagers and then Alfred had full reign of the place.

"It's freezing," Rhys stated as he rattled off the temperature. "This is a terrible idea."

Alistair waved a dismissive hand and then lit up a cigarette. "Let him run it out."

 ** _It_** , being youthful energy.

Alfred grinned and gave a salute. He then ran amuck; pleased that there was all sorts of stuff Alistair made allowances for in order to tucker Alfred out. His uncle had often sparred with him in the past to "exhaust his mischief."

Alfred kicked at a pile of snow and watched it fly.

"Alistair!? You can't smoke here!" The Welshman hissed.

"The hell I can't."

"There's snow on everything!" Alfred laughed. He swept his hands along different play pieces and threw the powder up into the air.

Reilley humored him by playing on the seesaw for a while and then Alfred played on the slides. Ice had made them even slicker and faster and more exciting.

"Alright. Alright now, that's enough," Rhys called. He checked his watch. "Alfred, we've got to go now."

Alfred ignored him. He spotted Reilley over on the swingset. He was stealing sips from a flask in his coat when he thought no one was looking.

Alfred climbed up onto a seat near his uncle and then stood. He swung back and forth and enjoyed the brisk wind on his face.

 _The branch swayed under his feet as he touched down. Keen blue eyes stared into the distance._

 _There…_

 _Near the shore…_

 _The largest, strangest canoe he'd ever seen in his whole life was bobbing on the waves there. It was as big as an island with mighty trees growing out of its middle. And the trees! O he had to see them up close! So tall! So straight! And they gleamed in the sun!_

 _He waited for the pale strangers to move beyond his hiding spot. They chattered in strange sounds and dressed oddly. Weird headdresses shaped like the eggs of some giant beast were on their heads, the men sometimes took them off to mop at the sweat on their brows. The headpieces made strange 'ting' sounds when they hit things._

 _He'd watched them all come ashore in little canoes. Small versions of the big canoe that had no trees in their middle. It reminded him of little fledglings from a nest, ones that still had soft feathers and small beaks._

 _When he deemed it safe enough, he flew out. Over the sand. Over the waves. He followed a_ _Tsyohwʌ́tstakale as it cried and circled the great canoe._

 _He tried standing on the trees but they were hard and slippery beneath his feet and did not react. No sense of joy bubbled up his feet at his choosing them to perch on. They did not welcome him. It made him upset at first until he realized the trees were not alive. Dead. Dead like dried firewood. They were not growing out of the canoe. The canoe was not as magical as he'd first thought._

 _Something like disappointment weighted his insides until he entertained the thought that it was a tribute._

 _He'd seen elaborately made gifts for chiefs and tribes and-and-and-_

 _This one was floated on water to him..._

 _A gift from his water-father!? And the canoe became beautiful again. Perhaps this was a sign?! Water-Father knew that his son could not fly the distance between them and had sent him this. He would use this gift to cross the seas to Father._

 _Aktsi:'a_ _, who'd shown him with rocks how the world had been fashioned, had told him how they were in the center and the world was made of rings and most of them were water. That's what made their land so special. That Sky Mother had landed here. That the turtle had risen to meet her._

 _Father was adventurous and lived near the edge of the world for its thrill. Or-or! No! He was heroic! And he kept things from falling off the edge._

 _That was why Dyami had been left in the center of the world. So that he'd be safe. That's what he told the other children when they teased him for having no one._

"Alfred, please don't stand up there," Rhys entreated. "I can help you get down. Or...or if you must...levitate...then do so...into my arms. It'll look like a jump if humans are watching, but you'll have control-"

Alfred blinked and gazed down. At some point he'd moved onto the tippy-top of the swingset equipment. He was unconsciously playing balance beam on the steel bar.

"Alfred," Rhys repeated. "Alfred, your father wouldn't like this one bit and neither do I."

He stared into serious hazel eyes.

" _America...surrender. You've lost this battle." The Welsh nation stated coldly. "You are too late. Don't be a fool. Give yourself over."_

 _America looked behind him to a harbor full of burning ships. The lurid glow, acrid smoke, and hissing steam made it seem more nightmare than reality._

 _Ash and cinder fluttered down between them._

 _As he turned back around, his uncle took an aggressive step forward._

Instinctively, he stepped back.

America didn't even have time to yell as he dropped from the top of the swingset.

It was only because of Scotland's saving dive, he didn't end the night with a concussion.

Alfred shakily complimented him; he must be great at volleyball.

Rhys was openly agitated after that and tutted repeatedly over unsafe playing habits and what could've happened. Yeah, playtime was over.

"You could've done grievous harm to yourself," Rhys scolded for the upteenth time as they made their way back to the train station.

"Ack. Let it gooo," Alistair growled.

"And _**you**_ could've burnt him!" Rhys hissed as he snatched the cigarette out of his brother's mouth and dashed it on a brick wall.

"But I didn't," Alistair muttered under his breath.

Rhys sniffed and for a while it seemed like he was going to let things settle down...until Alfred raced over to the train—abandoning them all.

In retrospect, it probably looked bad and unruly for someone his outer age to just jet away from his relatives but…

His uncle totally overreacted.

Alfred got a very public, very embarrassing, dressing down about running off which America brushed off because: Dude, he was the U.S. of A. and was totally sovereign and independent and who cares what Wales thought.

Later, when he tried to climb up onto Reilley's lap on the train, the Irishman immediately pushed him off. "Oh no you don't, Alfie boy. Don't get to hide out with me."

He looked over to Alistair who was leaning against a standing pole. The Scotsman leveled a hard gray stare at him and an accusatory finger. "Fix it."

Alfred frowned. Fine. Whatever. He didn't need a soft spot to sit. He could stand too! And he did! For a couple of minutes, and then his feet started to hurt as the train vibrated with movement and it was hard to stop yawning and he was really cold.

All the fun and exhilaration of the night had leached out. He very reluctantly made his way over to where his Welsh uncle was sitting tensely.

The American let out a long, frustrated sigh and then grumbled, "I'm sorry I made you upset...but you were being really super bossy."

"That's your apology?" Rhys raised an eyebrow.

"Yup, you were mean."

"Telling you not to run off and endanger yourself, is mean? When it's past ten at night and there are...are dangerous characters about?" The man refuted incredulous.

 _Ash floated in the air..._

"Alfred?" The voice was stern.

 _And he was horribly outnumbered…_

"Alfred?" The tone was concerned.

 _Anxiety invaded him and his heart pounded as all the warnings he'd received that his family members were now enemy combatants rang true-_

Alfred flinched as a hand touched his face before retracting.

"So you're starting to remember that…" Rhys sounded sad.

He wasn't really sure what to say to that, "...s-sorry…"

"Is that why we're having troubles right now?"

Alfred squirmed and begrudgingly nodded.

"Would it help to know that I feel badly for how that turned out? It wasn't what I wanted...at all..."

America plucked at the cuffs of his jacket. "...you won…"

"Did I?" The man muttered bitterly.

* * *

Arthur returned after a brutal evening session to find his home empty, his child gone, his dinner spoiled from being left out, his cat unfed, and no note. No bloody note, email, text, or message from anyone.

Everything was in disarray like they'd had to leave suddenly...which unravelled his nerves to near breaking point.

His heartbeat was loud in his ears as he made multiple calls and received message machines. He filled Camelot's bowl with dry kibble and gave him an extra treat for his patience. He paced the house several times. Checked every email, pager number, and counter surface for a hidden Post-It. He was about to report his child as missing to the police. Had his finger poised on the 9. Already knew which wallet photo he'd present. When the front door opened and his family spilled in.

"Did yeh see that tramp?" Reilley noted. "I was impressed how far he pulled that shopping trolley. What with the locking-wheels nowadays."

"Where the bloody hell were you?" Arthur raged as he stormed over. "I've been desperately calling you lot for the last-"

Alfred turned around from his spot in Rhys's arms to reach feebly for him.

Arthur immediately acquiesced, "Poor dear, you must be freezing!" He dusted snow off the child's head and shoulders. He immediately began working the little one's coat off so he could benefit from the warm house and make sure his sweater wasn't soaked. "Alistair, close that door. It's letting a draft in."

"The Nordic's people let kids nap in it-"

"I'm NOT a Nordic! Close the damn door!" Arthur hissed.

The Scotsman made a face but did as told.

Arthur checked his child over. His son's lips were getting chapped and he swore he saw a hint of purple in those rosy cheeks.

"Three grown men," he tutted. "Three! And even with your combined forces, you can't safeguard one child! He's probably got frostbite! Out at this hour with him? He'll likely catch pneumonia."

"It IS America," Northern Ireland pointed out. "You gotta grade us on a curve."

"I'll kick you to the curb! You twa-"

"You're loud!" Alfred complained and jutted his bottom lip.

Employing herculean restraint, Arthur lowered his volume because the child was overtired and cranky.

And no wonder why! It was past 11!

Arthur forced in a breath, counted to three, and stated to his brothers in a calmer...though no less dangerous voice: "If you lack the decency and courtesy to inform me of your whereabouts and respect my curfews...I will have to ask you to leave."

Alfred stiffened in his arms and his face went sour. "Nonono, don't be like that! It's me. I was picking at my plate cuz I was in a funk cuz I kinda missed...sooo they took me out to eat and then we went to the park and there was this seesa-"

Arthur choked, "You-you went to the park at this time of night?!" Which one did they go to? There were several that were dreadfully unsafe after nightfall; breeding grounds for drug transactions. "Those-those are daytime things to do-"

"Nuh-uh," The child argued petulantly. "Those are...whenever-you-feel-like-it things cuz...places are 24 hours now...welcome to the Millennium, Old Man."

Arthur's brows furrowed. "O no you don't, Mr. Sassy Britches, there are certain levels of respect I demand adherence to."

"I should've informed you," Rhys intervened.

"Yes! You should have!" Arthur growled at him. "Have you any idea how worried-"

"NO! He's taking the bullet! Dad, he wanted us to come home sooner, but I wanted to keep playing and-"

"Of course you did, and that's why I left him in charge!" Arthur roared.

Bloody hell...

An unsettling silence fell on them until…

"Idgit," Alistair muttered.

"Whaddyamean he's in charge!?" Alfred exploded—voice going high with outrage. "I don't need anybody in charge. _**I'm**_ in charge. I'm the Super Power. I'm the Leader. Put me down. Put me down, _**now**_."

Arthur held him tighter. "It was a poor choice of words on my part. I expect him to advise you. I didn't mean-"

Blue eyes narrowed into slits. "No! You expect him to babysit me. I don't need a babysitter."

Arthur sighed, "If you would prefer Eva, I can call-"

Horror contorted the young face. "NO! Is that why everybody's here?! OMG!"

Arthur blinked taken aback. "Don't be absurd."

"It is! It is!"

The boy thrashed and Arthur had no choice but to set him down. The Briton was too tired; his strength and concentration were compromised; he'd never forgive himself if he dropped the little one on the hard floor.

Still, Arthur guarded the staircase to prevent the child from running up it and escaping the conversation. "Please, please, hear me out."

"It's the law, Alfred." Alistair stepped forward and grabbed the child's shoulder. He spun him around roughly.

Arthur's hackles instantly raised at the less than tender handling.

Alfred stared at his uncle. "Huh?"

Alistair gestured with his thumb over at Arthur. "Arthur's afraid of getting his arse prosecuted by the NSPCC. You're under 12. They're iffy about that sort of thing. If people saw you coming and going as you pleased for hours at a time; tending the hedge, shovelling the roof, bringing back groceries all alone. Not going to school. All that'd be seen as permissive parenting. You understand?"

Alfred's face reddened with frustration. "But...but I'm not...a human-"

Alistair snorted, "It doesn't matter how it is. It matters what it looks like!" Alistair crossed his arms and loomed over his nephew ominously. "They'll call it neglect. They'll call it bad parenting. They'll say Arthur's a _**bad dad**_ and they'll report him. Yeh want that? Yeh want them to take him in and put that on his record? Put you in a foster system? Yeh'd be separated from each other. Governments'll have to step in to mediate and sort the mess out. Yeh want that? Yeh want _all that_?"

Alfred bit his trembling lip and shook his head. He briefly made eye contact with Arthur before looking back down and whispering: "...I don't want you to get in trouble."

Effectively stunned by the drama, Arthur stood numbly as the sniffling child ducked under his arms and climbed the stairs at breakneck speed.

Arthur turned back to his brother, aghast with how that turned out. "W-why did you go and do that? W-why did you say it that way!?"

Scotland raised an eyebrow. "I saved yer ungrateful arse. It's the law. The _law_ and not _you_ that's hedging him in. You see?"

Arthur looked up at the top of the stairs and winced as a door slammed. "You hurt his spirit."

"He'll sleep it off," Alistair reasoned.

Maybe if England was still the same person he'd been in the 1600s and 1700s, he'd believe that. He mounted the stairs instead and made for the child's room.

"Alfred?" He knocked. "Alfred?" He tried the door, but it was locked. "Sweet? Let me in? Let's talk, you and I? Please?"

He pressed his ear against the wood and strained to hear. He caught soft, half-swallowed keening and with all those horrid dreams he'd had of late…of his little one suffering an ocean away.

They were only a few meters apart right now and he'd be damned if he let something like a door stand between them.

Movement behind him made him look over his shoulder.

"I don't need an audience," He growled as Reilley and Rhys stood side by side.

"Ahem." Reilley extended an opened hand to Rhys.

The Welshman sighed, dug around in his coat, extracted a set of picks, and set them in his younger brother's hand.

The redhead grinned and swaggered forward. "Step aside Artie, this calls for a professional."

* * *

Read & Review Please : DDD


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or Sherlock Holmes. Or Velma and Scooby Doo. Or Barbie. Or _The Price Is Right_. Or Toys R Us.

 **Warning:** Some profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Some angst. More drama. And a copy machine.

 **AN:** Binge-watched Digimon Tri (Japanese audio) and I gotta say...it's pretty adorkable. XD. Thank you for your reviews and support! I've been re-reading them to keep me focused! Thanks for waiting patiently and now I hope you enjoy! : DDD

 **Chapter 11: Breaking Point**

* * *

England wrung his hands as he waited for the door to be opened. God, he hoped he wouldn't find an open window and a vacant room—Australia's specialty. Or a tantrum-induced mess; a younger Sealand sometimes threw toys and pillows about and, if it hit something breakable, England would need to bring in the broom and vacuum.

"That's the ticket!" Reilley crowed as the tumblers surrendered and he twisted the door handle.

The door swung open and Arthur practically tripped over Reilley in his haste to enter.

The room was in order; the floor was uncluttered by toys or clothes, the lights were on, and the bed was made.

It shouldn't have been too surprising that the space was clean; the child had been spending most nights with him and Arthur's room was the one suffering a stuffed animal invasion.

Only, there should've been a little body curled up on the covers here.

He tugged up the bedskirt, but the child wasn't hiding under there either.

The window was closed and bolted and he felt some relief at that...only...where was his son?

Unease began to drip down into his stomach and the shadows in the room seemed darker.

If they'd missed a portal and an UnSeelie had infiltrated and spirited his child away…

No...no...he felt the little one's presence clearly, but where the devil was he?

Reilley nudged Arthur and cleared his throat.

"Didn't even barricade the door," Reilley tutted loudly. "Lazy American. What does it matter if you're working at all hours, if it's half-arsed work?"

The mahogany wardrobe creaked.

Reilley and Arthur looked up.

There, huddled on the top, was Alfred—frowning dolefully down at them.

He must've flown up there.

Reilley smirked at his younger brother.

Arthur shook his head. "Alfred, it's filthy there. Come down. Let's talk this through."

The child sniffled, looked over the edge, and shook his head.

"Come on, sweet. We'll go to the kitchen, get a warm drink, and sort it out."

A tear hit him and Arthur felt his heart twist.

"Oooh me...what a face…" Reilley winced. "You are your father's son when yeh let the waterworks go."

Arthur gave his brother a hard elbow and then raised his hands up."Come down, or hover over or-or-or...just...I'll catch you."

"...no…"

"Reilley, grab me the desk's chair-"

Alfred sighed. "I just...wanna sec...to myself and...so I can-can…"

Arthur mounted the chair and realized he still wasn't at an adequate height to maneuver the child down.

"Geez...you don't give up easy, do you?" Alfred noted.

Arthur frowned up at the child. "Who do you think you inherited that indomitable spirit of yours from?"

Reilley muttered several choice Gaelic insults about that stubbornness as he eyed Arthur and held the chair steady while his younger brother balanced a foot on each of the chair's arms.

"You don't have to do that," Alfred replied softly.

"Good," Arthur snapped. "Prove it." He raised his arms again.

There was a long sigh and then the child swung one grimy leg over the side, scattering dust bunnies to the floor, and then lowered himself into Arthur's arms.

Arthur then very carefully made his way off the chair and down to the floor.

True to his word he carried Alfred down to the kitchen, past a pensive Rhys, away from an aloof Alistair, and set him at the table. He pushed the chair in.

Arthur pulled out a pot for the stove and milk from the refrigerator.

Rhys surprised him by taking over the task and turning on a burner.

Arthur sighed, mouthed a 'Thank You' to his eldest brother and moved to the far cabinet.

"...I just didn't think this would all start happening so fast," Alfred broke the silence.

Arthur acknowledged the statement with eye contact and a nod. He then pulled out two ceramic mugs from the second shelf.

"It's hard," Alfred continued. "It's harder because...I...I had the chance…to go back to how it all was before..."

Arthur looked over his shoulder.

The child had his elbows on the table, his head in his hands. The posture of a defeated man didn't suit America.

"That UnSeelie King...he could've made me a grownup again...you were there...you heard him."

"You stayed true to yourself," Arthur replied.

"...bit me in the ass."

Arthur shook his head and closed the cabinet with more force than he intended.

The sharp sound startled the child into looking at him.

"You were brave," England stated—tone hard. He came over and set the mugs down on the table.

"...but I could've avoided all of this!" Alfred insisted. "Now, I have new problems-"

"Precisely." Arthur nodded.

The boy gave him a quizzical look.

"You have _**new**_ problems," Arthur echoed.

Alfred blinked.

"Which means: you solved some of your old ones. And now you move on to a new portion of the puzzle and quest we call, Life."

Two thin blond eyebrows came together. "I can't tell if you're patronizing me."

The Briton smiled gently, "I'm proud of you. It's frightening moving on, isn't it? Quite suddenly, you find yourself in a realm brimming with uncertainties. And all the expertise and knowledge you had before...isn't...enough any more."

Arthur had hesitated on using that word. "Enough" had deep connotations for the little one.

"It's scary," was the child's reply.

"Indeed."

"...Has this happened to you a lot?" Alfred turned to face him.

"Sweet, it's happening right now." Arthur muttered while he took a seat beside him.

"Is it really weird, dealing with me, like this? Give it to me straight, dude."

"It's...challenging...I think over a lot of our...interactions in the past...how I...could've conveyed things differently had I known..." That he was doing business and diplomacy ventures with someone so frightfully young.

That England had been so short-tempered with the boy's many shortcomings, made him feel terrible.

In the grand scheme of things, there was no way to deny that Alfred made a goofy grownup. He was efficient where he had to be: in business, in science, in war...but he was always that little bit off in social situations.

Obnoxious, foolish, eccentric, selfish were words that had flitted through England's mind as he watched his ex-colony flounce about in ballrooms with all the decorum of an overexcited child.

And that hurt now...because he had been...and he was viciously teased about it.

With an ache, he thought over Alfred's reaction to Arthur's winter ball. At no point had he expressed genuine interest or excitement. Beyond apologizing to Arthur for his absence which had instigated Arthur's own absence, he didn't seem disappointed to have missed it.

France, Austria, himself, and other European nations; they'd ruined balls for him a century earlier. Arthur could see that now.

So quick to poke fun at him; his vapid conversations and oafish manners. So easy to prey on his narcissism with a sharp, witty comment. He'd lent himself well to being the butt of a joke. They'd used their talons on him; self-righteously certain that they were ultimately helping him by deflating that head and making a better nation out of him.

And he'd learnt to tune them out. And it seemed like...he wasn't...very good at telling when he was being teased, when he was being insulted, and when he was being offered unwelcome (though needed) advice. It all got lumped under: "Things He Did Not Wish To Hear." And nothing anyone said held much weight. It was difficult not to flinch thinking of all the "I love you's" he'd given these last few months that had been met with suspicion.

And why not? Arthur had done precious little over the centuries to make him feel loved. All the small tender things he'd done over the years, which helped _himself_ sleep at night, did nothing to alleviate the neglect that had flooded his poor child's life.

It stung Arthur to think of him alone in a house struggling to take care of himself and make himself presentable to adults who were quick to tell him what he was doing wrong...and never what he was doing right...

The child was a braggart; telling everyone at meetings what his people had invented, showing off maps of where new railroad sections had been implemented, waiting for confirmation from anyone that he was someone special...

Because he wasn't getting that from anyone...except perhaps...Texas…(And who was Texas getting that from? America? No wonder the two were so...)

Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose.

His child could also be callously dismissive in moments that demanded empathy. On more than one occasion, England had observed the American stare down at photos of destruction with nonchalance.

" _Enemy camps?" the American inquired._

 _Throat tight at the wanton loss of life, England had nodded._

 _The lad stretched and cracked the vertebrae in his neck. "Good."_

He'd been disgusted with him in that moment.

But now…

The memories that had been shared with him: losing a leg to a cannonball, losing a hand to scientists' nuclear experiments, having his chest hacked into with a tomahawk for the pursuit of Manifest Destiny...

It was a probably a miracle Alfred hadn't devolved into a ruthless monster. In dark, quiet moments when Arthur thought over the blasé attitude regarding their nation's capture, the disconcerting comments made by America and Texas here and there, this damned letter conspiracy...Arthur couldn't help but shiver; it seemed terribly likely that his government was deliberately pushing him...hoping he would buckle.

What they thought he would do unfettered…

Arthur blinked as a small hand was waving itself in front of his face.

He grasped it gently.

"There you are. Lost you again," the boy mumbled.

Arthur frowned.

Alfred sniffled and tried to tug his hand free. No doubt for the large tear trailing down his little face.

But Arthur held the hand fast and brushed it away himself.

How could Alfred be more compassionate when he had no one to model that for him? When there were no gentle hands for him?

He'd had books; legendary heroes on quests to lay out values and morals. In fact...many of his mannerisms were...strikingly similar to the stories and songs Arthur had read to him so long ago...but placed in a modern setting...no wonder some of his words and deeds seemed so...amusingly stilted...

And then it became sad again; those heroes he was emulating...they were all flat, static things he couldn't interact with or be truly comforted by.

But through them and an array of humans passing in and out of his life: He learnt how to be pleasant, how to be entertaining, how to be impressive and intimidating in turns.

He mimed "correct" behaviors, memorized "correct" dance steps, and recited "correct" phrases to close out business deals.

He was a prodigy.

He was a bloody child prodigy.

He was a lonely, ill-treated, unsettlingly serious child...

Who was currently fretting over all his adult responsibilities, and grieving over an impending loss of adult independence, and anxious over what global expectations would be desired of him next…

The weight of all that...meshed with so much neglect...had warped him and was continuing to warp him terribly.

Little fingers squeezed his larger ones.

"I used to think over our interactions, too. Ya know? When I was younger," Alfred nodded emphatically as he spoke. "You'd use such fancy words sometimes, I wouldn't know what the hell you were saying. I wrote them down and researched them, so I could use them too. But then by the next time I talked to you...you had more. And you weren't impressed at all that I knew the old ones…"

Arthur's heart contracted painfully because...he had done it on purpose quite a few times. Had wanted to use the ensuing bafflement to persuade a young America to accept schooling at one of his universities so he could draw him out to his country.

But Alfred never asked; just laughed it off.

There were so many small, sticking un-kindnesses that had littered their visits like prickly burrs caught in socks after tromping through fields. It was going to take years to pull them all out.

Rhys came over and poured the pot into their ceramic mugs: blue for Alfred and red for Arthur.

Alfred took a sip of his cup with his free hand. "I'm not angry at Alistair and...I don't want you to be either."

Ha. He didn't get to decide that.

Alfred sighed, "I...I know my own government will probably start cracking down on me about this stuff too. I just...I thought I had more time before it became a big deal. And I didn't think you guys were gonna be the ones to jump on the bandwagon first!"

Arthur nodded.

"I...geez...I...I gotta figure something out fast. I mean, I...you're…" He looked down at the table and then at Arthur. "They respect you."

His heart began to flutter. Was his child going to request him to stand in as his guardian? That would be the best possible solution for their troubles! There would be no questioning of his motive. No accusation that England was trying to relive his glory days. Just a realization that if there was anyone in the world whose care and concern for him was limitless, it was Arthur.

"I...I need your help," Alfred entreated.

Arthur enfolded those little hands in his own and then held them both to his chest close to his heart. Hope flowered in his breast.

His child swallowed nervously. Arthur rubbed soothing circles across the small knuckles.

It seemed to work; Alfred took a deep breath then said: "We...we have to convince them. Together would be best..."

Arthur began nodding.

"That...that I'm not human enough for their standards to apply."

Arthur stared. Over by the sink, Rhys dropped the pot with a soft curse.

"But we can't go crazy about it!" Alfred explained. "Otherwise, they might try and quarantine me like a vicious animal. You're good at that. You're good at-at talking. You...you always sound reasonable. You could help me argue it. I mean, I get that I look all wrong and that's...fine. I...I mean, it'll hurt having to move from my Colonial house that's...a special home for me and Tex, but I get that the public would freak seeing me hang Christmas lights and stuff. And if that's the case, I've got that Hall. This is the kick-in-the-pants I need to get that place up and running. It's...not in that horrible of shape, all things considered. Though, I need electricity and wifi stat. I can fix the stairs and check the floors. I planted a lot of the trees on that inner ring surrounding the estate specifically for future repair work. And as far as aesthetics go, I can whip out new curtains and there's tons of crap in the basement I can probably use. Hell, I even added an attic way back then. I remember, they thought I was crazy for having both in one house. All that extra timber I had to have...Dude, I'm...totally rambling...Father? Father, would you support me in this? Please?"

Ice. In his stomach...in his fingers...in his toes...through his spine...in his soul...

The American sighed, "I know that's a lot to ask. You can sleep on it. It's just...if I had someone like you in my corner. I...I wouldn't feel like it's a lost cause…and that my life's ruined."

* * *

Alfred fidgeted. He'd gotten up super early to Skype with Texas before his brother started his day and because he needed spiritual backup. It wasn't panning out exactly as he'd planned though.

" _You said that?"_ Tex gasped—bug eyed with shock. " _You actually said that? 'Support me or my life is ruined?' You gave him that kind of ultimatum?!"_

"Uh...well…"

" _Ally-olly-oxen-free!?"_ Tex shook his head in amazement as he pulled a fresh undershirt on.

"W-well, he didn't answer back! He's...mulling it over still, I think," Alfred mumbled as he tugged a comb through his hair.

After Alfred had finished his milk last night, Rhys had coaxed him into taking a bath while Arthur just sorta sat there absorbing it all.

When he was clean and dressed in his cozy racing pajamas, he'd arranged his stuffed animals on Arthur's bed, kept one bedside light on, and waited.

He'd been in a light doze when the mattress dipped at around 2 am. He was too tired to ask Arthur's verdict but was happy to be tucked in and have his hair pet.

" _I'm sure."_

"Anywayzzzzz. I wanted to keep you updated. I couldn't tell ya last time: letters."

" _Oh yeah, you texted me a few days ago. They finally coughed up your Daddy's letters to ya. How's that been going-"_

"Oh! Yeah, those...well, actually...I meant, Osha's letters."

Tex clucked his tongue. " _Right. She's...still writing you and...you're still reading."_

"Yup! They're a map!"

" _Huh?!"_

"It's crazy clever. They make a map. And some of the letters have numbers up at the corner and you think: O! She's just numbering the pages...and she is...and yet…" He paused for dramatic effect. "She isn't. And when you add up certain sequences you get two digit numbers and those numbers when paired correctly correspond with-"

" _Ugh! Weird math. Even this imaginary kind makes my head hurt. Geez, this stuff is frustrating…"_

Alfred blinked. "Big...bro?" Tex was good with math. He did their taxes. Plus, he was an ace when it came to _The Price Is Right_.

" _What am I gonna do?"_ Tex muttered as though he was thinking aloud.

"W-well, when you come over I kinda wanted to have you read them too and see if there's...hidden stuff in these that I didn't catch."

Tex raised an incredulous eyebrow. " _We both know I can't figure that stuff out. I never solve the whodunit-movies we watch. I don't even need to read the damn letters to know I can't do squat."_

"T-texas? You, okay?"

" _What am I gonna do? Be emotional support? Glorified nacho-maker?"_

"Texas…?"

Texas grabbed his hat off the corner of the desk, stared at it, ran a hand through his hair, and then put his hat on. " _You're my baby brother and you're...so smart. I dunno what I can really do to help."_

"You've got my back!"

" _...I guess."_

"Texas…"

" _You just don't get it. It took us months, Al. It took us...all o' us...ALL o' us workin' together pooling resources, making plans, bouncing off ideas. Me, Alaska, Hawaii, Canada, the U.S. territories and allies and cooperation from tribes I can't pronounce, and the U.K. Brothers. England was like-like Sherlock Holmes and...look at you! Solving Osha's clues, which ya know are sneaky enough to pass through prison scrutiny without settin' off alarms. You're like Velma from Scooby-Doo. She didn't need anybody else. The rest of that gang was eye candy."_

"..."

" _You...by yourself with Professor Google, an atlas, and a dictionary figured it out. Didn't you?"_

Alfred rubbed the back of his neck. "I...didn't use a dictionary...this time."

" _You see? Ya see that there?! And what? It took you: November, December, January, some of February? Nah, we shouldn't count December cuz...you were busy. Like less than three months. And you've been doing it in stealth too! Haven't ya? You haven't told them, you don't have the clues all set out on the kitchen table like we did. You're solving stuff at weird hours of the day and-"_

"Look!" Alfred cut him off—feeling frustrated and concerned at the dull hopeless look in his brother's usually blazing eyes. "Ya want a job; I'll give ya one. I need a reason to go there."

" _Huh?"_

"North East in the U.S., ya know, eastern woodlands. I...was kinda hoping Arthur would get on board with my I'm-gonna-renovate-Kirkland-Hall plan. I mean, I know he's usually so excited at the prospect. But he didn't pounce on it!"

" _Yer surprised that he didn't want you living off the grid in a forest estate that has no road near it, no hospitals, or fire station, or toilets, or...really anything?"_

Alfred hadn't thought of it that way. "...do you think that stuff is influencing his decision?"

" _Tch. Yeah, Al, I do. I think that stuff is big in Arthur's book."_

"See? This is what I'm talking about. This-" He pointed at his brother. "Is your job. I was planning on being at the Hall and then when stuff settled down, heading up through the forests until I hit my marks. Only, I don't think they'll leave me be. I think my Dad and my uncles would be checking in on me a lot. And if they found the Hall empty with me...gone...that it could...be... _not good_."

Tex opened his mouth like he wanted to say something snarky. He closed it and buttoned up his uniform instead.

Alfred chewed at his lip. "I think...Dad might...freak...if that happened."

" _Uh, yeah. Yeah, I think so."_

"So what do I do? What reason can I give for just randomly being up there?"

" _Baby bro? You're overthinking it: camping."_

"Camping?"

" _Camping. You're asking for a reason to wander the woods. There doesn't have to be one if you're there_ _ **for**_ _the wilderness."_

"...I love you."

Tex grinned. " _I love you, too."_

"You think that would work?"

" _Why wouldn't it work?"_

Alfred straightened the collar of his shirt. "I don't know if they'd be cool with me camping out there."

" _You wouldn't be alone. I'd be there. C'mon Al, it's Osha's plan. We gotta approach it with a healthy amount of 'This-Could-Still-Be-Shady'."_

"True. Very true. I think, I should announce it soon though. Otherwise, if I spring the idea too suddenly, they'll try and shut me down."

" _Agreed. In fact, try and throw it out there like you want their input on what month you should go. Old geezer nations like it when you ask 'em for advice. Like, the other day, I needed to get Spain off my back. So I told him I was fixing to schedule an optometrist visit for a new pair of glasses. And I asked him what style he thought would look good on me. He loved that."_

* * *

Several hours, a hearty breakfast, and a long car drive later, found Alfred perched on the end of a Toys R Us cart. He smiled across to Arthur, who was pushing it. His old man still seemed kind of annoyed though. Earlier, his dad had been banished to the backseat with him because his eldest brothers wanted the front.

Scotland had demanded the right to drive so that they'd "get there that day" and Wales had joined him up there as the navigator, or as Alistair referred to him, the "Nag-igator."

Which earned him a hard look from the Welshman and an opportunistically motivated sharp seat-kicking from Reilley.

Still, they all survived...though none of them could agree on a radio station for more than two songs and Alistair ran a stop sign, which ticked Arthur off.

The aisles of the store brimmed with all sorts of fun toys in bright colored plastics. When Alfred pleaded for a full tour, Arthur indulged him.

He still hadn't told Alfred what his ultimate decision was for Alfred's plan and he got this...look...whenever Alfred hinted towards it. Like he was gonna freak or throw up or something...that the American had to drop it.

He couldn't rush him; Arthur liked to think things over. He'd always been that way. Plus, he was European; they always dragged their feet when it came to decision-making. Alfred had to respect that. Irritating and stupid as it was sometimes. They'd rather make no decision than a "bad" one and then whine when things spiraled out of hand. Sometimes they'd finally make a choice and find out that it was three years too late for it to work. They weren't like Alfred who just did something, right or wrong, and dealt with the fallout.

Clonk.

He swatted the foam sword away and frowned at Reilley and Alistair's wide grins.

He kept being repeatedly rapped on the head with plastic and foam swords from his ginger uncles which _**was**_ funny the first few times.

He'd waved away Arthur's attempts to insert himself into the unfairly, lopsided battle because his dad could be a total wet blanket when it came to fun. Arthur's knuckles turned white, but he didn't interfere again. But by the second aisle, the whacking got real old, real fast. Worse, they seemed to get a greater kick out of it, the less fun he had. And while Rhys clearly disapproved, he seemed hesitant to get into the thick of it. Alfred had used to think that Arthur was just a spoiled sport and that having three older brothers would be fun…

But this...they were tag-teaming against him and-and-and-it was starting to hurt his feelings-

"Stoooooop," he whined as a hard hit clipped his ear.

And as if that was the cue Arthur had been waiting for, the man delivered a brutal knock to Reilley's ear with a plastic whiffle ball bat that cracked it's bright yellow plastic. He tossed the broken toy into the basket and ordered Alfred to come balance on the other end of the cart with Arthur's arms stationed securely on either side of him. Arthur's hands gripped the outer portion of the handlebar and Alfred had the middle.

Since he was way past done with his uncle's less than gentle horseplay, he didn't mind the fatherly fortified spot.

The rest of the Kirkland clan gave them a wide berth after that and Alfred...didn't really mind. He craned his head back to share a grin.

Tired green eyes smiled warmly at him and his head was pet gently.

They were walking down the Barbie aisle and Alfred was being dazzled by the plastic entrepreneur, cuz she could be anything she wanted to be and she had to have magnificent credit to buy that yacht, when Arthur's phone went off.

It turned out to be Canada and he wanted to video chat.

Arthur gazed downward. "Be good. Say hello to your brother, Alfred."

Maybe it was because the old man sounded so tired that he decided to humor him.

He stood up on tiptoes and Arthur leaned down so they'd appear together in the frame.

Alfred said "Hello" and tried to be pleasant and asked about Toronto and the snow and was given a gentle squeeze for his efforts. He found himself somewhere caught between being embarrassed and being glad that he'd thrown Arthur a bone..at least until his brother blinked and stated: "Your eye's almost back to normal."

"Almost" made him flinch because it meant it was still noticeable...just like he'd feared. Arthur had spent the better part of the morning assuring him that the difference in shade between the two was negligible and he didn't need sunglasses.

Arthur's frame tensed and though Alfred didn't look up, the Englishman's expression must've set off alarm bells because Mathieu hastily tacked on, "You-you look nice, Al. That's a nice sweater. You look cute."

And cute...wasn't handsome...or impressive...like he used to be...

* * *

Wales set a binder clip on a pile of assorted papers before slipping it into a folder. He'd need to have it interofficed to his own government. He watched the copy machine in the middle of the hall for an idle moment before he checked his watch, it was nearly time for lunch.

Rhys and his brothers had agreed that much needed to be accomplished before Texas came over and that it'd be best to alternate days of watching Alfred with days spent in the office. Arthur needed the help; physically, emotionally, spiritually.

Especially, because it seemed like Mathieu was expressing a continued interest in the occult and wanted to know their plans for Beltane's Day. There was a good chance he'd drop in at some point during the next few weeks and having all three North American brothers under one roof (when they weren't all getting along well) could be disastrous. And Alfred was still mastering flying.

The weekend had consisted largely of guiding Alfred through hula hoops and practicing over a trampoline. He'd honestly been shocked that Arthur had cleared the living room to set that up there.

" _I know my boy...He's stubborn and impulsive. He's going to practice,_ " the Briton had murmured wearily. " _I can either accept that and plan around it. Or I can reject it, and pretend I'm not aware when he shows up with bruises...I can't pretend...not anymore. I shouldn't have...ever."_

Rhys sighed. When an adult nation showed up injured to a meeting, it could be tasteful to ignore it...but when a child had wounds…

Rhys straightened his suit and then his papers. If he wasn't careful he'd be overwhelmed with stressors. What he needed to do was focus on the immediate issues at stake; he needed to find a way to broach the topic of the other night with Alfred. Arthur was taking it very hard. Very hard indeed.

Guardianship wasn't even in Alfred's line of sight as a solution for his predicament. While Rhys still felt his brother needed counseling to put himself in order, he had to agree with Arthur. There was no way they could endorse Alfred's plan to live in the woods in a ramshackle house. That would be madness! And it was a point in Arthur's favor...that Alfred needed a sensible parental figure to nip his crazier schemes in the bud.

And then in melodramatic fashion, Alfred had gone and threatened that his life would be "ruined" if Arthur didn't assist him. Like Arthur needed the additional stress! He was so close to a breaking point, Rhys was on edge. Because he didn't know how Arthur's frustration would vent itself and he was nearly certain he'd heard him crying in the loo that morning, though the faucet had been going. Arthur needed to decompress desperately.

If they could all lend a hand...prove that Alfred was safe and that Arthur needed to focus on himself, maybe they could prove the ominous feeling in Rhys's gut as unfounded.

He knocked on England's office and his brother appeared. Red rimmed eyes and violet bags made it clear, that he was still sleeping terribly and his waking life wasn't offering much consolation either.

The Prime Minister had announced that morning that there would be a referendum scheduled for June, but that the government would be in clear support of remaining part of the EU.

Arthur sighed and closed the door behind him and then he perked up.

Rhys sensed Alfred a beat later.

It was impressive how swiftly Arthur could sense his offspring now. Following the hex's removal, their father-child bond strengthened considerably. Rhys's bond had also improved; with fewer emotional mental defenses and the recovery of more amiable memories, he no longer cut such an intimidating figure. Alistair had laughed when Rhys had told him as much: " _Your loss. You soften up too much, and you'll be a doormat like Albion and Eire...and I'll be the only one what can talk sense into him."_

He'd rolled his eyes at that—knowing it was an action that irritated his brother and he wasn't disappointed. " _Ack, listen to me, I know what I'm on about!"_

No; Rhys did not want to be scary to the child. He wanted to be remembered fondly. He wanted to resume the better parts of their relationship...though remembering brought new challenges and he was reluctant to bring his own baggage regarding 1812 into light when the child and his brother had enough to deal with.

A paternal smile curled the edges of Arthur's lips and they soon spotted a golden haired child at the end of the hall.

Reilley and Alistair appeared two steps behind him, laden down with takeaway bags and drinks.

Apparently, Arthur and Rhys had been brought lunch and judging by the amount, the plan was for all the Kirklands to eat together.

He had a strong feeling that Reilley might've had the most to do with the meal and he made a note in his phone to spend more time with his younger brother, since he was clearly feeling left out.

Alfred took off his coat and threw it at Alistair, who barely managed to catch it and hold onto the food.

The Scotsman's face contorted and he likely rebuked the child for the inconsiderate action.

Alfred, judging by the body language, snapped something equally sassy back.

Arthur chuckled.

Alfred shook his head, abruptly turned away and, catching sight of his parent, beamed. He grinned so widely his missing bottom tooth was on display.

Rhys could feel Arthur's spirit soar. It was an instant mood booster to have someone he loved be so obviously ecstatic to see him.

The boy bounced on the balls of his feet and then (as if he couldn't stand one more moment apart) he hurtled with reckless abandon towards them.

Arthur laughed and gave a merry wave.

Alfred had been so close...only a few meters away when it happened.

Later, when his own indignation had cooled, Rhys would reason that the man had no doubt been startled by his nephew's breach of protocol.

That it was a natural response to a child running down the corridor.

But Alfred wasn't a human child and grabbing him by the elbow to chastise him didn't stop him.

And the fear and strength and resistance the man employed to try and keep himself from being pulled only triggered America to employ more force.

And the tagalong ruined Alfred's trajectory and they careened hard into the copy machine... which splintered on impact and tipped over.

The other humans sprang into action and unplugged the device. Several called for medical aid and more hovered around wanting to help but unsure how.

Arthur had shoved several out of the way to get to his child and reached right into the twisted mess.

Rhys helped break off larger sheets of plastic paneling.

His poor nephew. He was like one of those innocent baby animals in those horrid documentaries that condemn manmade waste products...except...he was tangled in a copy machine rather than six-pack soda rings.

The fact that he was thrashing and screeching in shock and discomfort made it worse.

"Shh, it's alright," Arthur soothed as he ripped out another cartridge and tossed it hard enough that it dented the parallel wall and frightened several aides away. "Daddy's here. Daddy'll get you out. Tell me where you're hurting."

"I'm gonna DIE in a printer!" Alfred wailed.

"NO, you're not!" Arthur hissed.

"My shirt's wet! It's wet! Am I bleeding? It's the adrenaline, I can't tell. Am I _**impaled**_?!"

Arthur shoved a hand deeper into the wreckage. A whoosh of breath escaped him. "No, baby, nononono it's just ink. See?" He showed his hand. "I'm getting covered in it, too."

"There's a wire around his neck," Rhys informed him quietly.

Arthur nodded. "I see it. Yes. Thank you. I see it, I've got it. There. There, we go."

Arthur pulled out a rotating drum and then there was finally room enough to wiggle Alfred out of the printer's remains.

Rhys moved back to give them space and looked up to see a concerned Reilley trying to balance all the food and drink.

Alistair, hands free of Chinese take out, was holding the man responsible for the whole mess against the wall. "Knobhead tried to bolt once he got loose!"

Arthur's chest was heaving as he set an ink splattered, ripped shirt, worse-for-wear Alfred into Rhys's arms.

He then stalked over to where Alistair was holding the man, reared back a fist, and decked that human.

* * *

Read & Review Please! : DDD


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or Where's Wally?/Where's Waldo? Or Star Wars' Sith practices. Or _Texas, Our Texas_ by William J. Marsh (1924). Or _America The Beautiful._

 **Warning:** Some profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). More family drama and angst! Very brief references to UK assault laws.

 **AN:** I'm back from visiting my family and enduring Wifi-less environments. The horror! XD Thanks for your patience and your reviews and here you go! Gotta run to work now! Enjoy!

 **Chapter 12: Darth Killjoy**

* * *

Alistair shrugged. "All I'm saying is, we didn't have these issues until you showed up."

"It's not my fault," Reilley contested hotly.

Alistair shook his head slowly. "Bad luck of the Irish."

"It. Is. NOT. My. Fault."

Alistair dug a hand into the semi-warm plastic bag of takeout on the counter and handed an eggroll to his nephew, who was still sitting on the crepe paper of an examination table.

Save a few shallow scratches and a good scare, he'd been deemed unharmed. The doctor had left to try and track down England. In the meanwhile, Alfred decided to phone his brother.

Alfred switched his cell to his other hand to accept his uncle's offering of food. "Stop laughing, Tex. I'm gonna have to, like, bathe in tea tree oil to get all the toner off."

Rhys glanced over and jotted that down. "I can go by the store," he volunteered.

Alistair shifted restlessly; the medical office was a cramped room to begin with and with three adult males and a half-pint in it—it felt even smaller.

It was silently agreed that the examination table was the safest spot for Alfred and any time he left it, Reilley picked him up, gave him a whimsical whirl and set him back there.

Not wanting to suffer Arthur's wrath, all three men were weary of letting their nephew get underfoot, Alistair in particular; he was easily the most muscular of the lot and as a result, the heaviest. He'd flatten the laddie if he tripped on him.

Alistair's frame was usually something that made him proud, but in circumstances like this; his slimmer brothers had it easier; Rhys was long and lean, Reilley was wiry, and Arthur (when he joined them) would be similarly scrappy in build.

Alistair was the odd one out and his broad shoulders kept brushing against various pamphlets and supplies in the cluttered space.

There was more room over in the corner where the counter ended but...he just didn't feel like leaning against a poster with a graphic bisection of a pregnant woman.

And he wouldn't feel right leaving for the hallway either.

There was something about Alfred's torn shirt. The back had split all the way up to the collar and so the front kept sagging down—exposing his small shoulders. And Alfred didn't want to put his coat on for fear of staining it with ink. But he wouldn't just remove the shirt either…

For America...being undressed made him feel vulnerable…

Alba often took jokes about his wardrobe or lack thereof in battle, but it didn't mean he was unsympathetic when it came to such matters…

When being dressed or undressed wasn't a choice...that...well, that changed everything...

 _A nervous, frustrated, angry, ten-year-old Alba sucked in a breath through his teeth: it was so hard walking past naked fair haired children (the reds and golds of their people) for sale. But he only had the grit, the supplies, and the nerve to try and rescue one. And Cymru had already warned him repeatedly that they may still fail..._

He shook the memory off.

"Cuz I feel bad, Tex!" Alfred snapped as he polished off the eggroll and licked his fingers. "I know Arthur's getting royally chewed out-"

"Now, laddie," Alistair tugged the boy's shirt back up to cover him better. "Don't feel bad. We all know it's Eire's fault-"

"Ye poxbottle!"

"I just… NO...yes...stop laughing!" Alfred frowned and then looked at his relatives. "He's saying it's like the Juke Box Incident of '54. But it's not. _**That**_ was just my arm." At their blank stares, he continued: "I was being a good Samaritan! I was trying to stop a fight between Preps and Greasers and then it just-it all went-ugh and my hand went through. Anyways, I wasn't trapped in it. Though...I did have to take it with me."

"Wot?"

Alfred shrugged. "I had a meeting at the White House! Those are a pain to reschedule."

Angry voices outside the room turned the atmosphere sour.

Alfred quipped a quick "Love you, bye!," pocketed his phone, and jumped down from the table.

Before they could stop him, he slipped out into the hall.

They clambered after him:

"Laddie!"

"Boyo!"

"Un bach!"

"Mr. Kirkland," Mr. Porter, a gray-haired senior advisor, addressed their youngest brother (who was white-faced and furious...though holding it in admirably well). "You have to understand the severity of your actions and-"

"Watch the tapes again, he had no right confronting my son like that-" Arthur was startled out of his heated rebuttal when Alfred wrapped his arms around his left leg. The child's shirt sagged even further—sliding down his arms to the elbows. Arthur made a sympathetic sound and immediately took off his rumpled business jacket to lay it over Alfred's shoulders.

The human shifted uncomfortably. Whether it was at the display of paternal concern from the often professionally-stoic England or the reality that America had been mistreated and that was terrible for international diplomacy, Alistair couldn't tell.

"My poor lamb," Arthur crooned and picked the child up. He glowered at the man and his control began to crack. "You see? You see this?! That brute-"

The man sighed. "It's still going to be viewed as ABH and Alistair will also likely face charges-"

Scotland scoffed. If anything his government would be surprised that he went so long without incident. They kept a whiteboard marking days since his last scuffle.

"Not if I say I was assaulted first!" Alfred butted into the conversation. "That dude didn't have my consent and he totally wasn't my parent. So...Dad was trying to 'prevent' a crime," Alfred offered over the shoulderpad of his newly acquired jacket.

Mr. Porter frowned. "That was not 'reasonable force,' Mr. Jones; it was excessive. He left in a neck brace."

Alfred wrinkled his nose. "I'm also a public servant and international diplomat and this is a damaging altercation that casts a bad light over US and UK relations."

And when his nephew decided to talk "grown up," he knew just what to say.

"I mean, if this is how you treat _**me**_ , how well are you treating my citizens when they visit?"

And how to strike while the iron was hot.

Arthur shook his head tiredly. "Alfred, I will handle this-"

"No, let him think about that! I was attacked!"

Mr. Porter straightened his tie as a muscle in his cheek ticked. "You were not attacked. The incident, while regrettable, was an accident-"

Alistair crossed his arms and cut in. "Fact is, the idgit put his hands on the bairn."

"I concede that he should not have done that, however-"

"Could've been a pedo," Reilley piped up. Alistair turned to his Irish brother. Reilley winked. Alistair had to turn more fully to try and hide his smile from the human. God Almighty, sometimes Reilley was just his favorite. The things he dared to say…

Alistair composed himself and looked back.

Mr. Porter was visibly ruffled now. "Mr. Walters did not intend-"

"Ah, but we don't know that, do we?" Reilley countered.

"That isn't-"

"A strange man put his hands on our nephew, England's son," Reilley mused. "It was going to provoke strong protective feelings—usually violent-"

Alistair joined in, "Who knows what ill plot could've-"

"You're twisting-"

"I won't press charges, if he won't," Alfred interrupted.

The man was getting frustrated. "You don't understand our laws-"

"Otherwise, I'll sue," Alfred finished with relish.

The man faltered, "You-"

Alfred leaned forward. "O, I'll do it. If somebody in my land can sue for coffee being hot, you can bet your ass goodbye that I'll sue that jackass if he doesn't play nice with us-"

Arthur looked overwhelmed. "Alfred-"

"That _**bloke**_ ," Alfred amended. "And then I'll sue you-" He studied the human's name tag. "Porter. For lacking appropriate concern and a civil response. Then I'll sue Parliament for embarrassing me with such blatant disrespect." Hard blue eyes blazed and his tone darkened. "Oh! And BTW, I'm not a 'Mr.' I'm a General."

Mr. Porter paled.

Alfred's face contorted angrily. "I haven't endured such shocking ineptitude and offensive impudence since the 1790s. Which I endured _then_ for obvious unequal-power-related reasons, but-" The child's voice turned frighteningly adult and full of doom when he hissed: "As a Superpower _today_ , I suggest you find a way to placate me. I _urge_ you to find it _**FAST**_."

What followed was a tense phone call from Mr. Porter to his associates and then the hall flooded with various representatives from the House of Lords and the House of Commons. He was nearly stampeded by various sycophants repeatedly assuring that they wanted no trouble with America and that his welfare and satisfaction mattered greatly.

"Our deepest apologies General Jones-"

"Such a horrid incident-"

"We most definitely do not wish to damage relations with you and your nation-"

Even thirty minutes later, Alistair was impressed with how on edge they all remained. Even while Alfred had clearly cooled off; he was playing hopscotch on the tile floor of the entry way for Chrissake! They remained wary. They seemed to recognize how close America had come to the brink of throwing a nasty temper tantrum.

It was meted out that Arthur would not be arrested but was now on "Mandatory Stress Leave" and had to agree to a full course on Anger Management.

Alfred had wanted less and had been poised to demand it (and Alistair wished for popcorn since he was sure the fireworks were really about to start) when Arthur ruined the whole thing by telling him in quiet tones that they were embarrassing him by making such a spectacle.

Which had dampened the boy's spirits a bit until he revitalized himself with hopscotch.

Alistair watched his nephew bend down to touch his toes and then jump to another square. While he did so, Alfred also listened to messages on his phone on loudspeaker. Five were from Texas. Two were from Hawaii. One was from Japan and the most desperate...was from Canada.

" _Alfred! I'm so sorry. I just realized-I-can understand how it might've sounded the other day-but that wasn't what-I-I your eye-er-I meant! I meant that I was glad that you're healing quickly!"_

Alfred scowled and before the message even finished—he deleted it.

Alistair reached over and flicked him hard on the forehead.

"Uncle Al!" the child protested.

"Stop being an idgit. Yer not Reilley, so yeh can't claim that you're just being yourself."

"HEY!"

Scotland smirked at the hard looks he got from Wales and Eire.

"I just don't feel like talking to him right now!" Alfred pouted. "Or this week."

Alistair grabbed his nephew around the waist and held him upside down and shook him. "I had _**three**_ brothers and we lived in a one-room hut."

"And you all walked miles and miles in the snow!" Alfred giggled shrilly.

"Barefoot."

"In a blizzard!" Alfred embellished.

"Uphill both ways on broken glass," Alistair added as he spun the child lazily.

Arthur looked over from where he was signing paperwork and choked. "What the devil are you doing?"

"Astronaut training," Alistair quipped.

"There will be NO astronaut training," Arthur snapped—marching over and rescuing his offspring. He turned the child rightside up and set him on his feet. "NASA is defunded."

Alfred sighed and looked over at his uncle. "I call him Dad, but his Sith name is Darth Dreamsquisher."

Arthur flinched.

Alistair snorted heartily and received a swat from Rhys. The Scotsman gestured to his older brother. "I call him Darth Killjoy."

* * *

Alfred crawled onto the trampoline in the middle of the family room and laid down—hearing the steel springs compensate for his weight.

He'd already taken three baths and still had ink stains.

He closed his eyes and tried to push the day's events from his mind since they made him feel heavy. If he was going to levitate, it was important to feel light.

He willed himself to lift off the synthetic fibers but-

Embarrassed him…

Arthur said he'd embarrassed him…

Until then, he'd thought he was doing well. Arguing down Arthur's sentence and protecting him the way a hero should! Only…

Arthur hadn't been grateful or relieved.

He'd just been quiet. That hard-eyed, disapproving quiet where he pressed his lips together so hard they turned white.

And Alfred knew he was all alone in the moment.

He remembered various times during the World Wars where he'd share a meal with England and the Commonwealth Nations who were sometimes present. England would raise his glass and praise Australia and New Zealand for their bravery or Canada for his steadfastness or-or-

Alfred turned on his side.

There was a never a 'Cheers' for America and he was forced to talk himself up; the kills he'd managed, the missions he'd completed, the brilliance of his own audacity. But Father was never impressed.

He'd just stand there and watch and when America trailed off into uncertainty, he'd ask: " _Are you quite through?"_

Alfred flicked his fingers against the fibers and listened to the thrum; He wished he could practice tumbles and flips and stuff. That would've tired him out and then he wouldn't have to think any more. He'd just be tired and then he'd just sleep and tomorrow could start.

But Arthur had warned them all when they set it up, that the ceiling was too low, so there'd be no jumping...which kind of leached the fun out of having a trampoline.

He released a whoosh of disappointed breath and tried to clear his mind.

He imagined the tops of trees, the chilling breeze of air enveloping him, the squawking cries of birds, the rushing of air in his ears, and the boundless freedom the sky always promised and delivered.

He was doing it. He was levitating.

It threw him for an absolute loop when two hands came on either side of his tummy and tickled him.

He immediately fell from the air and bounced.

He was shocked to see a smugly victorious Arthur looking down at him. Especially when he'd pretty much resigned himself to a depressingly downer day where Arthur would keep to himself in his office and his uncles would tip toe about on eggshells.

Arthur tickled him again and he tried to retaliate—sending squirmy fingers to tender places: the neck, the elbows, the armpits. But there was no effect!

Arthur released a melodramatic evil overlord laugh. "I had three older brothers, Alfred. Three. Plus, Australia and New Zealand. I'm _**all**_ tickled out."

Alfred squealed and tried to get away. "Nooooo! Ahhh! Hahahaha!"

When Alfred's face ached from grinning, and his stomach hurt from laughing, Arthur finally released him.

"That's better." The Briton smiled. "You've been melancholy all afternoon."

Alfred's cheeks puffed and before he could swallow it down it came out: "You said I was an embarrassment!"

Green eyes widened. "Wot? I never said-"

"I embarrassed you."

"I said,'t _he spectacle was embarrassing me.'_ You were hardly alone in the endeavor. Those clowns I call brothers-"

"I read between the lines and you meant-"

Arthur reclined next to him. "I meant nothing more or less than what I said. Please don't put words in my mouth."

"I just wanted to help!" Alfred snapped.

"I know, love. But I don't need you to intervene on my behalf and in the future, I'd appreciate it better if you'd-"

"You do it! You do it all the time!" Alfred pointed out.

Arthur's eyebrows twitched guiltily. "That's...a bit different."

Alfred's face puckered. "Nuh-uh."

"I'm quite a bit older than you, dear, when I have a concern it comes from a place of experience and-"

"There you go! You're trying to pull the 'Age' card and I'm telling you that at this cashier stand—it's denied."

"Your heart was in the right place and I do appreciate your intentions, truly. I'm sorry if I hurt you with my phrasing. I only meant-"

Angry that Arthur just didn't get it, he burst: "I didn't want them to take you away! So I used my clout. Why's that a bad thing? You've used it before in world meetings and stuff. I used yours plenty of times before I was... It's the Special Relationship! What's it there for, if we can't use it like an ace up the sleeve now and then?"

Arthur sighed and tried to tug him near.

"No," Alfred mumbled. "I don't want a hug if you're angry at me."

Arthur manhandled him over and-and-

"I'm not the one who's angry," Arthur stated calmly.

Alfred realized with a start, as he listened to a steady heartbeat, that the old man was right.

"That's all you, dear."

The American released a hard breath through his nose "...it's my fault. If I'd just stopped when he touched me-"

Arthur shook his head. "No, he had no right to-"

"But now you're in trouble and you can't go to work and you have stupid counseling and you're gonna be stuck at home stressing and-"

"Oh hush, this just means I get to spend more time with you."

"H-huh?"

Arthur nuzzled their noses and repeated. "I get to spend more time with you now. That's always a good thing to me. Perhaps, it didn't unfold the way I'd wish it to, but...results are results."

Alfred blinked...he...hadn't thought of it that way.

Tired green eyes smiled. "We'll get the office set up to accommodate us both. We'll...we'll get you a nice, new shirt."

Alfred slowly brightened as he recalculated his plans for the next few weeks and ways he could make it up to Arthur. "We can get you new grout, and maybe even new tiles for the counter in your bathroom and I can reseal them for you and it'll increase your property value?"

England stared.

"...I wasn't just a baker. I've also been a contractor for...well, just about everything since forever—well okay, since I age-shifted to sixteen. What can I say? I was a strapping young man, people liked putting me to work. What I mean is, we could do home repairs, if you want. During these next few weeks? It'll...get me all practiced up in a safe environment before I go after the Hall...?"

He wasn't quite willing to completely release the Hall-Fixer-Upper Plan. All he needed was a spark...some teensy bit of agreement...of Arthur caving...

"...er...uh..." Arthur got that nauseous look again and Alfred knew he had to ease him into that scheme gently.

"Baby powder would fix that creaking floorboard downstairs near the guest rooms," Alfred offered.

"You won't be touching that floorboard. _That_ floorboard alerts me to when my young guests enter or exit my house after curfew."

Alfred's jaw dropped. "You-you...sneaky fiend."

Arthur laughed and soon another round of tickling commenced.

* * *

Arthur sank against the tweed couch. He could sleep. He could sleep right here, right now. He'd spent the past few days assuring Alfred that his counseling sessions were perfectly safe and that no danger would befall him, but nothing was enough.

Arthur had received several packets and filled out various questionnaires.

" _They made me do all that stuff, too," Alfred had mumbled anxiously when it arrived in the post._

He'd tried to lessen the child's fears by setting him on his lap while he read through a few.

He'd even gone so far as to indulge the child by letting him wait out in the lobby for today's first appointment because he'd started having terrors again.

If England's own nightmares hadn't been enough to contend with, now his child was suffering once more. His heart broke in new ways with every "No!" And "Please!" and "Stop!" he overheard as his child's slumber was spoiled.

When he'd sought out Rhys to give more insight and means of providing comfort, his brother disappointed him.

" _There's not much more you can do, Arthur. The rest depends on him. Until he seeks out assistance and opportunities to share his pain…"_

 _Arthur scowled. "There has to be more. Can't you hear him?"_

" _This...this is your best chance to convince him. Be the role model. Take the courses seriously. Show him you're safe in these sessions, show him that you're benefiting from them, and perhaps he'll follow."_

Which was...irritating. Because he was a private man and being asked to put himself fully into a situation that made him vulnerable…

But...wasn't that exactly what he was asking Alfred to do?

And if Alfred did watch him so very closely...and he showed reluctance…

Dammit, his brother had a point.

He couldn't just pay lip service.

He had to do this. He had to do it right. For Alfred.

To think, months back he'd waited almost eagerly for Alfred to start working through his traumatic experience with Osha—convinced that if they could overcome that, their bond would heal up as a natural result.

Fool that he was…

This was...more than difficult…it was horrific.

The nauseous feelings he'd endured during America's capture were returning as Alfred subconsciously tugged at him for help and began reliving segments of his captivity. Only this time the nausea and vertigo were amplified by his close proximity.

And sometimes their dreams even bled together. Alfred had slipped into one of his about the plague a while back and now Arthur sometimes found himself sharing the child's experience: the claustrophobic sense of being utterly, hopelessly trapped in body, spirit, and mind.

Where glimmers of blue sky from a window on the side of a room he couldn't reach, were a constant torment.

And interwoven through it all was the crushing sense of failure and guilt that he couldn't rescue himself.

The few attempts Arthur had made to discuss that were shut down.

Until this point, he didn't think his hatred for Osha could possibly increase, but...

America…

His America…

His freedom-obsessed little colony who became a liberty-worshipping nation…

Whose magic well-represented him through the untamable spirit of wild flora and the uncatchable quality of the ever unfettered sky.

Caged.

His America had been caged.

England had been captured before. Imprisoned. Enslaved. He'd bided his time before; been broken out or bartered for or managed to escape with a serendipitous changing of the guards.

For Arthur it was a matter of bitter patience, at-the-ready ingenuity, and steady strength employed against a sturdy opposition. It was something that could be planned against.

For Alfred it was something more…some kind of cruel evil thing that couldn't be fully understood but was instinctively, desperately hated and feared and raged at.

It was the panic of wings battering themselves bloody against bars...and then not even his mind was safe as she reached in…and his rebellious soul was pinned down further.

It was an attack on soul: an effort to break him.

Arthur's hatred for that woman strengthened a hundred fold.

"This will be a mixture of one-on-one and group sessions," Dr. Hargreaves explained.

Arthur nodded and then frowned at the name placard on the desk. That last name… "Hargreaves...Royal Fusiliers? City of London regiment?"

The man's graying eyebrows went up. "Yes, my great-great-grandfather."

"Good man."

"Thank you."

"I think I remember him. He was. A good man." More often than he'd liked, Arthur had had to lie about such things before. It was good when he could legitimately pay a compliment.

"He had plenty to say about you, Admiral."

"I see how you left that open. I won't argue the point; I'm quite sure that not all of it was good."

Both men laughed good-naturedly. Well, at least he wouldn't need to edit his life's details. The doctor knew exactly who and what he was. He'd been told that through paperwork, but it was nice to sense it through their interactions.

Still, he couldn't shake off the odd feeling that Alfred was much closer than the waiting room and he wondered if this was proof that the past week was getting to him.

It was confirmed when Wales knocked on the door a few minutes later, rather pink-faced and demanded that America show himself.

At first, Arthur thought he was off his rocker and then...the bottom cabinet doors slowly opened.

How in the world he managed that...Arthur wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Arthur felt his face flush. "I-I'm terribly sorry, he-Alfred get out from there!"

"I just wanted to make sure you were safe! And that he wasn't a weirdo!" the boy cried. "They tricked me! They tricked me and they could trick you, too! Being clever isn't enough!"

Rhys squared his shoulder and made to reach for his nephew.

"That's not necessary," Dr. Hargreaves stated. "I've been made aware of your...experience at...Calm Waters Clinic, General Jones and your concerns are very understandable."

"So my government blabbed to you about me," America spat.

"I was given a general explanation of what happened to you. Which is...horrible, and as a psychologist and a father...I'm very upset for you and I can only hope that you won't think of everyone in our profession as similarly untrustworthy."

Alfred went pale at that but still forced out, "It's still a breach of my privacy…"

"At this time, I'm the only one who was told. It was background information from my government and yours to help me assist your father and to be in a position that if you expressed any interest in receiving counselling, I could arrange a suitable professional to meet with you. I guarantee you that all matters discussed will be kept confidential. We would coordinate your sessions to the same dates that Arthur comes in. If you wanted him or security or anyone to be present, I would completely understand and make sure that your counselor abided-"

"And would you keep that info on file?" Alfred demanded.

"Well, yes-"

"Then it's not private! You can be hacked!"

"Or we can record it on paper-"

"Stolen!"

Arthur shifted uncomfortably at the child's angry paranoia and reached with gentle hands for him. The boy moved beyond his reach.

To his surprise, Dr. Hargreaves smiled. "It can be strictly verbal. If you don't want anything written down. That's fine. You don't have to give any details. If you want different counselors each time, we can work that out, too. One of the most critical jobs of a counselor is to give you an environment where you can work out major life changes in a healthy manner."

Alfred shuffled back then and used Arthur to block the man's view of him.

Dr. Hargreaves continued smiling, but his eyes were sad. "In short, we must make a place where you can feel safe."

Tucked against Arthur's right side, Alfred scoffed, "Safety's a delusion we tell ourselves so we can fall asleep at night."

Arthur cleared his throat in the awkward silence that uncoiled after that dark statement. "Dearheart, I will be an hour or so longer. I will meet you in the lobby and then we can go by the shops for that new shirt like I promised."

Rhys opened the door and Alfred reluctantly withdrew. From the way he lingered, it was clear he was giving Arthur every opportunity to bail out.

Several beats after the door shut and Arthur sensed his magic signature distancing itself, he sighed. "I-I am terribly sorry."

The man turned to him as if surprised by the apology.

"I-I-"

"You don't need to take responsibility for someone else's feelings."

He felt a protective surge of emotion for his child and he bit out defensively, "It isn't his fault. He's been treated horribly."

The man nodded. "I read what they were willing to share. He has…" His face twitched a bit like he wanted to say more but professionalism kept him muzzled. "VERY valid reasons to feel that way."

"Do...do you want me start there or…"

"You can talk over whatever comes to mind."

"I thought…this was about my anger…?"

"Anger is often erroneously assigned as an outcome of frustration. It can stem from many places: anxiety, fear, stress, helplessness, injustice, emotional or physical pain, disappointment-"

Arthur sighed.

"Guilt."

He fidgeted.

"Anger isn't a "bad" emotion. It often surfaces when we feel threatened and we feel forced to act-"

"They sent you the incident report as well, I trust?"

"Ah, yes. A man grabbed young Alfred and they bumped into a copy machine."

"Through a copy machine," Arthur clarified and used his phone to show pictures of the damages.

The man's light green eyes widened. "And you reacted?"

"Strongly."

Rather than charging into the incident, the rest of the talk was mainly about what Arthur hoped to get out of the session and he surprised himself by blurting out that what he really wanted to prove was that this was a perfectly respectable way for Alfred to heal himself.

The doctor looked to the door and murmured, "I hope to prove that too."

When the timer went off, the counselor accompanied him to the waiting room.

Rhys sighed in relief and set his book down on his lap.

Alfred was sitting rigidly in a chair by a ficus, staring at his feet. His watch went off and he sprang to action with a look of determination on his face. He gasped lightly when he noticed Arthur already standing there. He smiled sheepishly and then bounded over.

Arthur gripped the back of Rhys's chair to steady himself as Alfred slammed into his legs. He felt his weakened ankle twinge. It was no use; he'd have to have a talk with the boy about being too rough with him. He just wasn't an Empire anymore and could only take so much.

The child rested his face against the leg. "You came back."

The scolding died in his throat.

* * *

England yawned and checked his watch. If the sign was correct, Texas's flight had arrived.

Wales was solving a crossword puzzle with America's help until the boy received a phone call from Texas.

"Howdy partner!" Alfred greeted eagerly. "Ready to raise some Cain? Yeah! We're waitin' on you, Big Bro!"

It had been rather endearing how Alfred had counted down the days until his Southwestern brother arrived with a paper chain. The morning of his arrival was filled with such infectious cheer, and after several consecutive nights of terror...it filled Arthur with hope.

He reached over to pet that wheat colored hair and was rewarded with a bright smile. He adjusted the child's scarf.

"We're gonna have to keep our eyes peeled. Tex's phone just gave out," Alfred explained.

"Well, we'll have to do it the old fashioned Where's-Wally-Way?"

"Huh?"

"I believe you call him 'Waldo,'" Arthur stated. Considering Tex's usual state of dress, it shouldn't have been terribly difficult.

They walked around a few times, but the crowd thickened to the point, that Arthur wasn't sure they'd be able to spot him quickly.

"Don't worry, Dad. I got this."

Alfred cupped his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice and began belting:

" _Texas, Our Texas! all hail the mighty State!_

 _Texas, Our Texas! so wonderful so great!_

 _Boldest and grandest, withstanding ev'ry test_

 _O Empire wide and glorious, you stand supremely blest."_

England felt his eye twitch and his face grow hot as his child (and by association, himself) attracted stares. And then there was the lyrics...

"So that's his state song…" Rhys raised an eyebrow. "Humble."

" _Texas, O Texas! Your freeborn single star,_

 _Sends out its radiance to nations near and far,_

 _Emblem of Freedom! it set our hearts aglow,_

 _With thoughts of San Jacinto and glorious Alamo._

 _Texas, dear Texas! from tyrant grip now free,_

 _Shines forth in splendor, your star of destiny!_

 _Mother of heroes, we come your children true,_

 _Proclaiming our allegiance, our faith, our love for you._

 _God bless you Texas! And keep you brave and strong,_

 _That you may grow in power and worth, throughout the ages long._

 _God bless you Texas! And keep you brave and strong,_

 _That you may grow in power and worth, throughout the ages long."_

England sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose when an enthusiastic answering serenade (complete with guitar accompaniment) of _America The Beautiful_ played out.

* * *

From his spot on the couch, Texas propped his feet up on the trampoline. He'd noticed earlier that the room had been cleared of everything save the trampoline.

Which was just...a NO in his book.

He'd taken one look at it all and told his brother: "I ain't sittin' on the floor" and "I worked too hard for too long not to have a good-sized T.V."

With Al's help, he heaved the furniture piece back into the room and got that glorious flat screen back up on that there wall.

Arthur made several unnecessary comments about possible property damage that Tex rebuffed with comments about hospitality. It was the 21st Century, some amenities were now staples. Plus, he'd made do with a laptop screen for long enough.

Arthur argued that it was a training room for Alfred and that he removed those objects to "better guarantee safety" and "promote ease of concentration." Tex had to set him straight; that he was going about it all wrong. Al _**loved**_ T.V. They had to use that to their advantage, not punt it away. That sure got the ol' limey's goat.

Angry eyebrows went down like a door barricade bar: " _Enlighten me."_

God, he was so overbearing sometimes—especially when it came to Al. Like he knew him better than Tex did! Like Tex and Al's years together didn't count! Even if he subtracted the Civil War, they still had, like, 160 unified years together and that wasn't even taking into account how chummy they were in the early 1800s (especially the 1830s—America had been very supportive of him after the Alamo). Round it on up, it was two centuries and considering their ages—practically half of their lives!

Tex frowned; he probably should've taken a week off before crashing here to get himself in order and chill the hell out. But...Al was acting weird. He was deviating from their rules and he wanted to know what was up. He also kinda...wanted to see if he could spirit Al away for a bit. Then they could figure out, whatever it was, Al's final plan for maintaining independence despite his downsizing.

In the meanwhile, Tex needed to show England up.

He flipped through T.V. channels on the hunt for something brightly colored and kiddie. Something that would get Al's attention; it seemed like as good a bet as any that if something was real interesting, Al's flying abilities would spark and he'd have motivation to float on over.

"C'mon Ally!" Tex gestured with the remote.

"I can't do it," Alfred whined as he bobbed in the air. "My emergency brakes have been left on and I don't know to tap the gas."

"Well, put your back into it!" Alistair ordered.

"What?! How?!"

"Figure it out," was the Scotsman's response.

"Gah!"

Arthur brushed past Texas (forcing him to lower his legs to let him by) and marched several feet further away and then turned. "Come to Daddy!"

"Uh…"

The Kirkland Brothers and Texas stared at him in disbelief.

"Come now, sweet. Come here, now." He opened his arms wide as if waiting for a hug.

Alfred turned a deep shade of pink.

"Tha's not going to work," Alistair scoffed.

"Sweetling!"

Alistair frowned and crossed his arms. "Tha's just not gonna work, you idgit. Now yer just embarrassin' him! And me!"

Texas had to agree.

"Bad form," Reilley muttered.

Rhys observed it all and took notes.

England ignored them.

"Come here. Come here, my darling heart." He beckoned the child with a warm smile.

Tex snickered. Maybe when Hell froze over!

Alfred fidgeted and then slowly began to glide nearer.

It was a cold day down there.

"Very good! You're doing so well!"

Al faltered several times but eventually made it into Arthur's embrace.

Arthur whirled him around in delight. "Brilliant! You were absolutely brilliant!"

Alfred turned even redder, but he seemed pleased.

They practiced like that several times over, and unwilling to be outdone, Texas sprang to his feet. Making sure his voice brimmed with excitement and joy, he called out: "C'mere, Baby Bro!"

Alfred grinned and zoomed over to him.

Oh yeah, two could play at this game.

"Positive reinforcement," Rhys announced as he scrawled it all down in his hand sized notebook.

Hours later, when Al was tuckered out and the day had ended and the ol' folks were squabbling over which news station to watch, Tex found a new source of agitation: Alfred was comparing bedfellows.

Alfred looked over at Arthur who was standing in his pajamas, robe, and slippers. Then to Tex who was in his hat and flannels. Then back to Arthur and then to Tex.

He slowly shuffled over to stand beside Tex.

Arthur accepted the decision but remarked that his door would remain open. And he still accompanied them to their room and...tucked Al in.

Which…

He totally understood a while ago, when Al was still fresh from the Wendigo crisis and new to his downsizing, and that, for whatever reason, Al was in need of a little babying from the mothership. But it was March now! And he needed to shake it off.

And maybe...just maybe, Tex was a little...sensitive...that Al had to think hard about who to choose. Really, after so much time apart, it shouldn't have even been a question.

* * *

Read & Review Please : DDD


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or Lego. Or Facebook. Or Skype. Or the game Parcheesi. Or the song _They're Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa!_ 1966 novelty record by Jerry Samuels or it's sequel: _I'm Happy They're Took You Away, Ha-Haa! (Though I recommend listening to these, trippy as they are.)_

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). I'd say this chapter practically oozes drama. Angst. Flashbacks. Dreams. PTSD. Panic Attack. Tyburn Gallows. Jolly boat. Fridge-raiders.

 **AN:** Happy 4th of July! To my fellow Americans (as well as anyone else who feels like joining the bandwagon): May you feast on BBQ, listen to patriotic music, and not lose any limbs by the end of the night. Woooooo! *Confetti Cannon* Thank you for your reviews! They feed me, so Read, Relax,  & Review if you can! : D

 **Chapter 13: Emotional Sabotage**

* * *

Alfred played cards in the lobby with Tex. They took turns on who was the dealer and who was the player.

They were pretty much alone, save for some old guy who was reading a book and awaiting his appointment, and a receptionist who was absorbed with her phone. It wasn't a problem pilfering the room's toy chest and using Lego bricks as betting chips.

He set down a cracked, green Lego as the next hand began and gazed longingly down the hall to where Arthur was having another session.

"Well?"

Alfred blinked. "Huh?"

"Welllllll?"

"Oh, uh, hit me."

Tex offered him another card.

Al took it and sighed, "I just don't get why he has to have these stupid things. I mean, I know he's having trouble sleeping, but…"

He wished he could tell England that the man just needed to be dog tired. THEN he wouldn't have to deal with nightmares. For some reason it just worked for Alfred—being truly worn out allowed Alfred to skip on over the dream cycle of sleep.

Of course he hadn't been able to do that earlier with England hovering around and enforcing bedtimes. But now that Tex was back, they could stay up late in his room or spend the whole day racing around in the snow outside. With his brother's aid he could reach maximum weariness.

Yesterday morning, they'd had an epic snowball fight. During a truce, they had helped each other build snow fortresses. He'd gotten several sweet pics of each brother's respective side as well as them making badass poses.

It was a shame; before they could do battle, Rhys ordered them back in with the threat of a lecture about hypothermia...and while they were distracted with a spontaneous challenge to play _Parcheesi_ , Reilley and Alistair were tasked with flattening their armaments with snow shovels.

"Dammit Al, I don't wanna play if you're not vested in it," Tex griped as he set the deck down on the table.

Alfred flushed and turned back to his brother. "I'm vested! I just-just…"

His eyes moved to the clock and he felt his anxieties lift a bit: there were only three-scratch that-two more minutes and then Arthur would be free again!

"I-" His ears caught Arthur's voice. He was getting out early!

Alfred threw his cards onto the table and immediately stood up on the drab, flat couch cushions, and turned to see the Brit walking towards him.

Unfortunately, that doctor was still with him., but...he looked his old man over; he seemed okay.

"DAD!" he called and waved.

Arthur broke away from his conversation and frowned. "Alfred?! Don't stand on-You sit down nicely! This instant!"

Here, he'd been agonizing over what kind of head games that doctor was playing on him for the last two hours and...he wasn't even glad to see him...

Alfred's mood soured. His cheeks puffed and he begrudgingly acquiesced. He turned back around and plopped down and made plans to get back at the old man. Maybe he'd ignore him...maybe he'd turn away when he came into view...maybe he'd-

A green sweatered sleeve reached around him and Alfred looked up—surprised to find Arthur breaking furniture rules to lean over the back of the couch to drop a kiss on Alfred's crown. "Thank you. I wouldn't want you to have fallen."

Okay...yeah...if he'd lost his balance and landed on that glass table...he'd have gotten an oh-so-fun opportunity to meet E.R. no...wait...the "A&E" staff.

Arthur released him and walked around the couch. He settled in beside Alfred and raised an eyebrow at the mess of toys.

Alfred groaned, "We're gonna put it all back. Don't nag."

Arthur crossed his arms. "I haven't nagged."

"You were going to. I could sense it."

"Creative use of Legos. I suppose the colors denote different betting amounts?" Dr. Hargreaves guessed.

Alfred stiffened. He had not been expecting the man to walk over now that the appointment was done. He was less than four feet away. Dude...his bubble...his BUBBLE was being breached!

Tex gave the down low of which brick equalled what.

Alfred felt unease twist his stomach and he sank back into the couch a little more. He tried breathing more deeply, but it didn't help.

The man checked his watch. "I still have a little time before my next appointment. Perhaps I can join you in a round?"

America tried to catch his brother's eye to signal a discreet 'No' but failed.

Tex shuffled the deck. "Blackjack. Ya know? 21?"

The man turned to face America. "Any tips for me, Alfred? Is he a card shark?"

The light glinted off the pen tucked behind Dr. Hargreaves's ear.

Alfred froze.

 _Osha's head tilted and the line of light filtering between the blinds glinted off the pen resting on her ear._

 _He was so weak, so heavy, so drugged…_

 _But if he could get that pen...he could use it as a weapon._

 _He tried to prop himself up and his vision blurred._

No. This was someone different. It'd be bad to hurt them, right?

"Alfred?"

He stared.

Maybe he didn't even have to hurt them? Maybe if he could just...get away?

 _Move. Body. Move. Dammit! He was too freaking slow! A shadow fell over him._

Alfred stared up at the doctor as the man moved forward. The sound of his own breathing muffled everything.

Move.

"...Al?"

" _Move dummkopf!" Prussia barked. "Move! You cannot do this in battle! Move! Move! Move! Dammit! America! Move or DIE! If you do this in training, you will do this on the field!"_

"Alfred it's al-"

 _But..._

 _They'd put a redcoat on his targeting dummy...and his hands shook and the rifle dipped._

"-right...perf-"

"P-perhaps not." Dr. Hargreaves replied. "I...I wouldn't want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, Alfred. I'm so sorry. I never want you to feel-"

It took Dr. Hargreaves quietly reminding Arthur to do some journal exercises and then walking away for Alfred to return to their plane of existence. Alfred realized belatedly that he was trembling and that Arthur's arms were wound tightly around him and his old man was murmuring over and over: "It's alright. It's perfectly alright."

He felt his face heat up as he noticed Tex was staring at him.

"Where'd you go, Al?"

"I just want to leave!" he blurted.

"Kay." Tex stood up, pulled on his jacket, and pocketed his deck of cards. "Arthur, keys?"

"Wot?"

"You want the toys put away. You do it. I'm gonna take Al out for some fresh air and then we'll pile into the car."

In some ways, being out in the cold open air helped. His head cleared, his vision sharpened, his hearing improved.

But then it shot over clarity and entered overload.

Light was too bright. The exhaust from cars, the smell of gravel, the nastiness of a nearby trash can, scents of coffee kept floating by, and then there was the buzzing: the murmurs of too many cellphone conversations all going on at once-

He threw up. Hard. On dirty curbside snow.

Tex whistled. "What'd you eat? Another boot? For kicks this time?"

Alfred laughed weakly. In years past, there'd been times where rations ran so low they were forced to boil boots and saddles. Sometimes Alfred's stomach didn't take it too well.

" _S'matter? Left boots, don't agree with you?"_

He wanted to laugh at the memory. Instead, another wave of sick left him.

"Good Lord! Are you alright?" Arthur rushed over. He set soothing hands on his back and shoulders.

He nodded weakly.

"Do you want me to get you water? I'm sure I can-"

He shook his head for 'No.'

"Are you certain? It would be no trouble...What was it, love? Was it a sight? A smell? A phrase?"

Damn Arthur's intuition; the man knew he'd been triggered.

Alfred shrugged. Because saying it was all caused by a "pen" was anticlimactic.

* * *

Arthur nodded at his laptop's screen.

Mathieu smiled. " _It's...it's really helping me. You know, talking things out. Handling my stress in a more productive way."_

"I'm glad to hear that."

They'd surprised each other with the admission that each was attending counseling. While he hadn't disclosed all the events that led up to it, Arthur knew choosing to tell was the right decision.

Mathieu had visibly relaxed and began telling him the different coping strategies they'd given him for maintaining healthier boundaries and asserting himself.

" _Which is...which is why I wanted…"_ Mathieu hesitated.

It was still a work in progress. "Yes?"

" _I still want you to teach me about the occult, as you said you would...if my interest lasted."_

Well, he was persistent.

Arthur still felt a little uneasy about the process, because once somebody delved fully into the occult there was no backing out. He'd have to stress that to the fullest. But...if 'leaving Mathieu out' was causing him great psychological strain, then he had no choice but to include the lad.

He was just wondering aloud about whether the lot of them should migrate over to Kirkland Manor. It'd be horribly understaffed, being an off-season, but the space could be soul-saving.

All the Kirkland Brothers and the North American Brothers under one roof...was...unwise.

Mathieu agreed enthusiastically and Arthur was feeling his own hopes start to buoy.

Mathieu seemed more like himself; positive, earnest...shy, keen on strengthening his bond with Alfred (His words!) and it made Arthur remember the little child who hovered around his knees and tried so hard to be good and quiet and polite.

Arthur paused when he noted Alfred's sullen reflection in his computer. He turned.

"Alfred, don't skulk about in doorways." He motioned for the child to come over and set the box of crackers on the placemat of the seat beside him. Something nice and easy for the boy's tummy. After that round of spewing, they'd foregone a trip to the store to bring him home to rest. Wales had volunteered to go in their stead and after combining their list with his own, warned that he'd likely be gone for some time.

Meanwhile, Alfred, rather than discussing what had caused him such distress, simply left for a nap.

It was eerily reminiscent of his reaction last year after his Sight began returning. Rather than telling Father what had frightened him in the kitchen (or now at the clinic), he'd just left. When he had trouble coping, he isolated himself.

Arthur tapped the placemat again—hoping the child was willing to be comforted now.

" _Alfred? Al? You...You haven't been returning my calls. Are you okay?"_

Arthur's eyebrows raised in surprise; he'd been refusing to communicate?

Goodness. That's what made things so bloody difficult; sometimes America's silence was deliberate and other times he was muted.

Alfred wore a bland expression in response to that statement and muttered: "Tch...snitch."

Arthur swallowed a sigh. He would let that one go. He cleared his throat loudly and changed the subject. "Well, it'll be good to have you home, Mathieu. We'll...we'll see about giving you both some valuable lessons on magic. Rhys has been developing more safety drills and lectures-"

He was trying his best to simultaneously judge his boys' reactions.

Mathieu looked fairly pleased.

Alfred looked…well...put-out wasn't a strong enough phrase...

"We think Kirkland Manor will work best. Plenty of room for us all. Won't that be nice, sweetling?"

Alfred shrugged a shoulder. "It's your house, you can invite whoever you want."

That was...uncalled for. It was more than just defensive, it was rude. And now their home had become a "house" again. To make matters worse, Mathieu looked wounded.

Yes, Arthur knew they were having troubles (most of which had been instigated by Mathieu this go around), but Alfred wasn't helping anyone with that surly attitude.

"Alfred," he murmured quietly. "I know you're not feeling well, but I won't have you be unpleasant. Maybe you should rest some more if you're not fit to be civil."

Alfred's eyes flashed with something like betrayal.

Arthur was hopelessly caught between them.

Mathieu was still understandably reeling and insecure over his familial origins and under no circumstances did Arthur want him to feel rejected from their very-alive-if-dysfunctional-family, and Alfred was still angered by his brother's many transgressions as of late and disliked what he perceived as Arthur making light of them to favor Mathieu.

Arthur sucked in a breath. He could understand Alfred's resistance. He'd been wronged multiple times in a row.

But as the father figure in their lives, Arthur had to give Mathieu the benefit of the doubt that he was sincere about receiving help and that he wanted to reconnect with them.

He wasn't choosing one over the other. He wasn't.

Arthur reached a hand for Alfred—inviting him to be part of this conversation, to join them.

Alfred's expression didn't flicker but he took a half-step back...and Arthur's heart felt like it was under that cruel little foot. Was this how his mother felt when her sons just couldn't keep the peace between themselves?

"Oi, Al! Where you at?" a Texan voice hollered.

"Kitchen!" Al yelled back.

"Don't shout," Arthur winced at the volume.

"Grab me somethin,' won'tcha?!"

Arthur shook the box of crackers again, but the boy ignored him; he went to the pantry and, judging by the sound, was after crisps.

"Oi, grab the shortbread, too," Scotland ordered as he entered the space to raid the fridge for drinks. He pulled out a pack of sodas. "And chipsticks for Reilley. And maybe something sweeter for you. I don't think shortbread'll do it for yeh."

"Feel free to contribute to the grocery fund," Arthur gritted through his teeth at his brother.

"Hello, Mathieu," Alistair greeted nonchalantly, like Arthur hadn't said anything.

Yes. Arthur knew how maddening sibling relationships could be. But if his boys didn't weed it out now, it'd sprawl into the unruliness that the Kirklands now deemed normal.

" _Hello."_

Alistair cuffed Alfred lightly on the ear. "You say hello?"

Alfred hugged his pantry finds to his chest as they slipped in his grasp and glared up at his uncle.

Alistair sighed, "I oughta just let you fight it out and be done with it."

Arthur balked. "Alistair?!"

The last thing needed was violence.

"Reilley!" the Scotsman shouted. "Come help Al carry this. Else yeh'll be eating chipsticks off the floor."

The Irishman was grumbling to himself as he came in to rescue his snack choice. He turned on his heel and was about to leave when Scotland chastised him.

"Ack, well don't _**strain**_ yerself, lass!"

Embarrassed, Reilley came back for several more items.

Alistair then looked down at his American nephew. "Well? Yeh wearin' that face for me special, or do we _**all**_ get to enjoy gawking at it for the next hour?"

Alfred nodded his head over at Arthur and Mathieu. "They both have shrinks and they're being bossy and wanna psycho-babble me out. I'm s'posed to cave and let them, otherwise I'm not _civil_."

"Tha' so?" Scotland turned to appraise Arthur.

Arthur choked and, from the sound of it, wasn't alone; a quick glance showed Mathieu looked equally mortified.

Alistair hefted the six-pack of soda onto his shoulder and with his free hand poked and tickled at Alfred while singing, ' _They're Coming to Take Me Away, Ha ha_!'

After a brief chase, America stood still and Alba lifted him (and all the snacks he was carrying).

Alfred giggled shrilly. Considering his task accomplished, Alistair carried him out of the room. While they left, he incited the younger to sing to the sequel verse with him: ' _I'm Happy They Took You Away.'_

With stiff angry movements, Arthur stood up and gathered the laptop in his arms. "I'm very sorry, Mathieu. Let us continue this in a _refined_ corner of the house."

* * *

England tossed and turned and kicked off the blankets. It was the fourth night of sleeping alone and he wasn't handling it much better than the first. Having Alfred so far away was difficult, even when he was irritated with the boy.

Mathieu had been so subdued after the teasing despite Arthur's assurances that there was nothing wrong with them seeking such assistance, that by the time the conversation ended…

Arthur was intent on confronting the American and discussing how very difficult things were going to be on all of them, if they couldn't work something out. And if Alfred couldn't be respectful of counselling.

But Alistair had stopped him in the corridor.

 _The Scotsman threw his arm out to block him from passing. Alfred was cheering Texas on as he challenged Reilley to Guitar Hero._

" _Don't badger him. It's simple. If he doesn't want to learn magic with Mathieu, he doesn't have to."_

 _Arthur glared—alarmed that (from the sound of it) Alfred had confided in his uncle that it was more than a grudge he was feeling. He was planning on outright refusing to share his lesson time with his brother._

" _I don't have the time, patience, and energy to give two one-on-one classes a day on the same subject-"_

 _Alistair shrugged. "Then don't."_

 _Arthur stared._

" _You teach Mathieu. From what I've heard, tha's what Mathieu's after. He's only been goin' to you about these lessons, right? S'all about you bein' the one to teach him? Right? So teach him. See what it is he wants out of it."_

" _And what about Alfred?" Like his son would take that lying down. It reeked of favoritism._

" _Like I said, it's simple. You teach Mathieu."_

" _But-"_

" _ **I'll**_ _teach Alfred."_

He'd been so angered by that, he seethed most of the night away.

His tone. His goddamn tone! The presumption that he'd do a better job than Arthur! When Arthur knew well his teaching methods! Had a plethora of poor childhood memories as a result!

And then there was the idea of it!

Giving his child up…

He was just supposed to give him up?

Never.

He fell into a fitful sleep.

 _The ship was a lost cause: pierced through the bilge by the mast of a previous wreck._

 _His hand clenched into a fist. They'd sailed unknowingly into a ship graveyard and would now join it._

 _His vessel was sinking. The hull was utterly breached and an oil lamp had fallen and set the cargo aflame. Sailors were abandoning their posts and the few passengers aboard had taken the jolly boat._

 _Those unlucky enough to be on board were now risking their lives by swimming through shark infested waters for the shore._

 _Admiral Kirkland watched the chaos unfolding with resigned disappointment. A flicker of movement caught his eye._

 _There. On the deck railing, leaning against a swivel gun (like it was a toy rather than a dangerous firearm), was America...no...Roanoke._

 _England's stomach flopped with fear. Arthur forced air into his lungs and started across the deck toward him because this was no place for the child to be. If he moved swiftly, he may yet be able to demand a spot on the small jolly boat for his son._

 _When the child noticed him, he stood up on the railing. His ragged gown clung to him and his tiny bare feet tottered with the violent motions of the sea._

 _The ship rocked dangerously in her death throes and Arthur was all too aware that the child could fall backwards into the waves at any moment._

 _Throat dry, he hoarsely beckoned for the child to come over to him. The commotion drowned him out._

 _The ship tilted as it began to capsize. He fought gravity to run up and grip the railing. The child was balanced precariously. He looked over into his father's face and voice heavy with disappointment murmured: "You didn't come. I waited for you...but you didn't come."_

 _There was a crash as a mast went smashing down._

 _Arthur cursed as he searched the growing wreckage for something he and his child could float on._

 _There! A barrel._

 _He looked up—intending to tell the child to hold onto him and he'd slide down and get them to safety._

 _But the child was gone._

Arthur woke with a gasp. The house's creaking from winter winds reminded him of the ship's timber groaning ominously. Without delay, he sped down the hall.

He stared at the closed door and swallowed thickly. He'd just...take a peek. Make sure he was in bed and safely tucked in and then he'd leave.

He tried to open the door as quietly as possible.

"Well, at least you made it to 5 am," Alfred murmured softly in the darkness.

He blinked. "You...O Alfie, you should've come over."

"...you hungry?"

Several minutes later and a trip downstairs, Arthur yawned as he put the kettle on. He then went hunting for a can opener.

Alfred pulled out and plugged in the toaster. While the boy hunted down a space heater, Arthur opened the breadbox and selected thick slices.

Alfred was still terribly waifish. Arthur knew now that stress made the boy lose weight; which explained why (in the past) he'd never seemed as concerned about his weight gain as Arthur had.

Alfred knew something stressful would happen and it would all fall off. Definitely not a healthy way to regulate weight, but that was a matter to address in the future.

Arthur pulled out the frying pan and took out a package of sausages. He assured his son several times over that he did NOT need help making a simple breakfast and for him to set the table.

Arthur felt his spirits lift as he slid meat from the pan onto Alfred's plate and the toaster pinged in the background.

It was comfortably domestic sitting like this. Arthur at the head of the kitchen table, Alfred at his right.

Alfred didn't complain as he ate around the blackened bits of meat and mopped up beans with his slice of toast. "This reminds me of when I had to work out in the fields. Having to get up super early to eat something or I'd putter out before mid-morning."

"Oh?" Arthur sipped at his tea.

"Yup. If I ate quick and got out the door; it meant I'd be out with the crops before Tex came staggering down. He's not a morning person."

As if to confirm that statement, Texas appeared in the entrance of the kitchen with his glasses askew. "You...made food."

Alfred nodded. "Yup."

"Do we...hafta...be somewhere?" It was like it cost the brunet dearly to force out each word

"Nope."

He got a sour look, grumbled several inappropriate things in Spanish, and then said, "I'm going back to bed."

"Love you, Sunshine," Alfred replied cheekily. "Always."

Tex grumbled a very begrudging "love you, too" before he slunk away.

After sharing a laugh at the Texan's expense, they put their dishes in the sink, and then went to climb up onto the trampoline and watch the weather channel's broadcast for the day.

There were so many things he wanted to ask: the contents of the child's bad dream and whether it had anything to do with his anxiety attack at the clinic or his...tantrum at Mathieu's impending inclusion in magic training. Whether the child was feeling...jealous...and what they could do to make him feel more secure.

He touched the wheat blond hair gently. He loved him dearly. There was no need to fear displacement; love wasn't a finite resource.

The child smiled at him and poked fun at the weatherman's outfit. He looked expectantly at his father to join in on the sport.

There was so much to address, but he was loathe to spoil the good mood.

And the man was such an easy target. An ascot, really, whatever was he thinking?

* * *

To say Rhys was agitated was an understatement. Being in close quarters with so many potent auras was exhausting him. His work trips to Parliament were almost a reprieve.

It was tiresome even with his brothers, whom he at least knew well. Having to deal with a Texas who was...in flux...was just maddening. His aura just wouldn't settle. It was like a dust devil that touched down and lifted up and...

One minute he was calm and still and the next...like the sail of a ship; he filled out with the breeze and jolted the vessel forward.

And now...NOW!

He didn't mean to eavesdrop. He'd dropped his favorite sterling silver pen and it rolled under the couch from the living room (which was now cluttering the parlor since the trampoline had been erected). It was so far under he had to walk over to the other side to better reach. He was just trying to retrieve it when two pairs of feet stopped.

The lightup shoes were a dead giveaway...as were the boots and spurs.

"I just… I dunno, Tex...I'm having second thoughts."

"What? Whaddyamean?"

"Bro, you saw me the other day. I totally froze up. I...I can't...lead you somewhere if I know there's a possibility I could just switch off like that. It wouldn't be right. I'd never forg-"

"Al, I believe in you 212 percent."

"Look, maybe you're right and I'll shake this off in a few more weeks, but...I think we gotta have some kind of backup plan. I mean, we can test the waters? See how he reacts to some of it, and then decide whether or not to bring him in."

"That there is a bad idear."

"It's just...Dad's...done a lot for me lately and he hasn't complained even once about it. He...wasn't lying when he said I could tell him stuff. I've...really tested that out. It...it feels like he's in it for the long haul. I mean, he didn't even cuss me out for yesterday. I totally lost my cool in his Skype session with Ma-"

"Are you real sure, though?"

Alfred sounded annoyed as he said, "I thought you were okay with him? That you were over the bar fight and everything?"

"I AM. I want you to have bonds and stuff..."

"Then what's the issue?"

The boots moved restlessly. "Nuthin,' it's just the miles per hour you're travelin' at. S'little risky is all."

"W-whaddya mean?"

The toes of the boots scuffed at the floor. "Geez, I dunno if I should say. I don't want you to take it weird."

"Nonono...no...I...I always value your opinion. Sometimes you see stuff I don't."

"I just...I could be wrong but…"

The sneakers moved around. "Just say it. Whatever it is, just say it. Band Aid rip. Go!"

"I mean, it just kinda seems like you're rushing into it."

"...I don't understand. Say it a different way."

"I just...I mean, I've seen you and listened to you a lot when you were drunk. You...have a lot of stuff wrapped up in the idea of family-ness and what a father is s'posed to do. And, granted, Artie is making a hell of an effort. Now. But is this a longterm thing? Or a short term thing?"

The sneakers were perfectly still. "You...you don't think...it'll last?"

"I ain't trying to be mean, Al. To be perfectly honest, I don't think Papi-dearest on my end is gonna hold up either. Spain's got the attention span of a gnat. He's gonna move on."

"England's not Spain!" Alfred argued heatedly.

"I'm not trying to make you upset. I just wanna point out that, no matter how you slice it...your Daddy is STILL the guy who didn't want to see you free."

Alfred's feet staggered back.

Texas continued, "He pointed a gun at you in the rain...you used to tell me that a lot...and then you got your eye shot out in Round 2…"

Rhys hardly breathed.

Yes. Arthur could be very controlling. And yes, England had been loathe to part with his colony, but...phrasing it that way...was unfair.

Alfred swallowed thickly and his aura went sickly. "I...thanks...different vantage points are always...t-thanks, they're...valid concerns."

Rhys's eyebrows came together; this sounded frightfully like emotional sabotage.

* * *

Arthur sighed when his head hit the pillow that night. Was it a little pathetic that he was missing his child's company so strongly?

After their cozy breakfast, Arthur was surprised to have Alfred spend most of the day away from him. He'd thought he'd have a chance for a heart to heart with him, but instead the boy went on the town with Alistair and Texas.

Scotland probably did it on purpose, knowing full well how much it irked England to not be the "Fun One" in Alfred's estimation. And considering Alistair's plan to usurp Arthur's role as mentor…

His teeth gnashed.

Meanwhile, Rhys kept trying to corner Arthur for "something important" but he was in no mood to hear about auras and whatnot. Reilley had gone to Parliament to meet with Northern Ireland advisers; though his business didn't stop him from posting a complaint every time Alfred updated Facebook with some fun activity: snowmen, snow angels, the park, a movie.

Which only deepened Arthur's own feelings of resentment...

Alfred, Texas, and Alistair missed lunch and dinner and the empty space at his table bothered Arthur enough that he went out to eat...and earned a passive-aggressive text from Rhys about running out on him.

He walked around, smiled at postcard-perfect families, sat down at a cafe and worked on his journal exercises. The assignment was: listing things that used to make him frustrated and don't anymore alongside a list of things that currently vex him. He was supposed to see if there were any patterns or coping skills he'd applied to a previous situation that might serve him well now.

He decided to list his present irritants first. Since listing every skirmish that irritated him would fill the book, he selected key ones here and there with a mix of other things. The Hundred Years War was on there. Obviously. Lasted so bloody long. Napoleon too. Both World Wars, of course. He had a long history of conflict with the Middle East. Ugh, McDonald's and the rise of the fast-food industry in general. People who let their pets wee on others' lawns. Unkempt hair, clothes, rooms.

It was allowed to be as thorough as he wanted from the most important: the frustration, guilt, and rage he felt when he was helpless to protect those he loved.

To trivial: When take away restaurants didn't include plastic silverware and the food choice made it vital; like soup, or rice, or spaghetti, or salads, or things drenched in sauce...

When he finished and read the list over, he noted with a start that he'd left off the American Revolution.

His jaw dropped.

1812 was still on there but…

He lifted the pen to add it in but...He…

 _An old iron key..._

Wasn't…

 _To a monument of love..._

Angry…

 _A sun faded flag in a room made just for him..._

Anymore…

" _...I just thought_ _ **you**_ _didn't love_ _ **me**_ _anymore…"_

It was never: ' _ **I**_ _stopped loving_ _ **you…'**_

Heart hurting, he pulled his cellphone out and without really thinking the matter through rapidly typed: _I miss you._

The second after he pushed SEND, he felt a backlash of anger at himself for being so selfish. He was spoiling Alfred's good fun. And didn't the child deserve fun without his paranoid father trying to guilt him about it? What was Arthur think-

The phone vibrated immediately, barely a minute after his message.

 _Then come home already_ :(

Home…

 _I'm on my way._ He wrote back.

He gathered his items and rushed to the station. Jumped the last few steps of various staircases and willed his legs to move faster.

When Arthur returned, he gave his coat a vigorous, obligatory shake before bringing it in to hang. He'd moved to the staircase to sit down and remove his shoes and found Alfred already sitting there—leaning against the banister; head bowed, knees tucked up under his chin and his arms were tight around his legs.

He'd seen frozen children in such positions during brutal winters. Children with nowhere to go, no warmth to be found and sheltered in.

His dream fluttered through his brain.

" _I waited for you…but you didn't come..."_

And he thought of poor Roanoke…who died waiting...

Of Kirkland Hall that rotted away as it was waiting...

He sat down and pulled off his shoes—tossing them to the side instead of carefully arranging them near the door. Then he pulled the sleeping child into his lap and cradled him.

Alfred curled up and there was something sweet and sad in it. Arthur wished in vain that his body temperature was warmer (being out in the evening air had chilled him). His cold embrace was making the little one shiver but the child didn't cringe from him.

His son gradually awakened and they exchanged pleasantries. Arthur hoped disappointment didn't ring in his voice. The child sighed as he rested his head against him. There was something so...somber in the action and Arthur held him close.

He carried the boy to the Living Room where it would be warmer and that was it. That was all the interaction they had. He'd watched numbly as their tender moment was forgotten and Alfred scampered to Tex's side. Two hours later, Arthur hoped to rekindle some of that affection by tucking him in but was waved away when it was time for bedtime; the boy wanted to play through to the end of a board game.

" _Reilley'll cheat if we leave it until tomorrow!"_

" _I will," the Irishman promised cheerfully._

Arthur retired for the evening. Alone.

He reached a hand into the gap of the headboard and mattress and pulled Fluff, the un-Favorite rabbit, from its depths.

He sighed and wrapped an arm around the thing.

Then he sighed and turned his light off.

 _He nearly groaned in frustration at being back in the Elizabethan era. He wandered from a leisure game of archery and slipped into the woods—happy to exchange the cheers of spoiled dukes for the twitters of wild birds._

 _Still, it was a surprise to watch his forest morph into the North East woods of Massachusetts._

 _Though it meant he was likely entering one of Alfred's nightmares...he was almost grateful. At least he got to escape his own._

 _Thunder rolled overhead and there was something sinister in the air._

 _Goodness, was he going to stumble out and witness a witch trial memory?_

 _Two men rushed toward him and he instinctively went into a defensive stance, but they ran past._

 _Judging by the wardrobe, they were not in the 1690s but the 1770s? Late 1770s?_

 _On a personal note, he was more than a little relieved that his ruff, doublet, and hose went unnoticed._

 _He felt his mood improve as he approached a small, dimly familiar village and saw his flag everywhere. And then his spirits sank as he realized he must've been wrong and it was the early 1770s, right before their troubles escalated to irreconcilable heights. And they were probably going to relive a painful scene from their past._

 _Only…_

 _Green eyes went wide; the windows of shops were broken and the acrid smell of smoke was in the air._

 _He released a startled gasp—the crops had been burnt and several homes were little more than cinders._

 _He realized with alarm that the town had been attacked. Nearly leveled!_

 _And he felt a well worn spark of anger at that._

 _Was it the natives? The French?_

 _There were King's men stationed here and there and a clear sense of foreboding lingered like mist._

 _There was fear on the people's faces as they struggled to salvage possessions. Several children were injured, yet the soldiers did nothing._

 _Arthur's chest puffed. Admiral Kirkland was about to give them a brutal upbraiding, when he turned to see what could be so bloody interesting over there that they felt justified in ignoring innocents._

 _A Tyburn Gallows…_

 _Capable of hanging 24 convicts at a time…_

 _And it had been put to use..._

 _He frowned, unsure of when Alfred had seen one. It certainly wasn't with him. He made a point not to take his young colonies through Tyburn. And he hadn't thought the idea of it had come over to America…_

 _Then it hit him._

 _He stood in quiet numb surprise and realization: this was a nightmare where America had_ _ **lost**_ _..._

* * *

Read & Review Please! : D


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or William Shakespeare's _Hamlet_.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Texas sayings peppered for taste. Muppet: an adorable UK slang term for idiot. Various American Revolutionary War details regarding British perspective as well as mentioning American towns that were torched. Also, lightly explores England's strategical values and how he'd maneuver through things. And dipping toes into the reality that how adults and children view things can be very different; usually with the latter seeing things with less dimension and butterfly-effect-consequence. Family Drama. Family Fluff. Family Angst. Everyone knows someone who wanted to the be either the school lead or the Big Bad and just wasn't cut out for it-but you cheered them on at that audition anyway! XD Emotional Baggage Pileup is becoming imminent! D : Dun Dun Dun!

 **AN:** Thank you for your reviews! I've been reading and re-reading them as I've prepared this chapter. Hope you enjoy! : DD

 **Chapter 14: Tricky As All Get-Out**

* * *

 _Thunder and lightning flashed overhead and Arthur felt his eyebrow twitch. How very melodramatic of the boy._

 _Like England relished the war..._

 _It just went to show America never bothered researching texts on the British view of it. It was more than simply unpopular—it required increasing taxes on his people on everything; even ink and rabbit hair. And despite the heavy feeling of resentment the British felt (for a colony they felt was indebted to them for years of protection and coddling) there were_ _ **still**_ _pockets of sympathizers here and there—moved by the philosophies of the Enlightenment._

 _And what America just...didn't seem to understand was that…_

 _England never thought he would lose. Arrogant as it sounded, while the boy was out scrambling to try and find ammunition (which wasn't manufactured in his lands), England was already meting out terms to his generals on how to handle the rebellious colony after it was back underwing._

 _They'd have to make it clear that the colonists needed to pay back what the war had cost their fatherland. And of course there'd be some manner of probation necessary to convince them and his colonists in other territories not to cause trouble._

 _Yes; there probably would've been some necessary executions but…_

 _He knew damn well there had to be incentives to replant loyalty. Otherwise, France could've made his resentful colony a willing theater for an even bloodier conflict later. Imagining Napoleon there was..._

 _Arthur shuddered._

 _And then there was Alfred himself._

 _He'd heard more than one officer murmur in exasperation (when they thought he wasn't in earshot) that they may as well make a rule not to shoot blond teenagers or the Ol' Sea Serpent would have a meal of the offenders._

 _And it was testament to his own grief that he half-considered the idea...ludicrous as it was. He'd lost track of how often he'd nervously scouted the battlefield following a victory; green eyes were constantly searching for a familiar, though fallen, form._

 _Another hard wave of rain blew into his face and then he glimpsed his son._

 _An ashen faced Alfred peered through the iron grate of the public gaol. His hands jangled with heavy manacles as he made to grab the bars._

" _Alfred!" Arthur immediately rushed over, cursed the mud trying to swallow up his feet, and tried to free him. "Blast. Stand back! I'll kick down the door."_

 _But the teenager stared through him, droplets of water streamed from his hair and Nantucket was drooping. Arthur glared up at the wooden planks of the jail; they were leaking enough that the boy was soaked to his skin. And the stains that were visible on the wet fabric signalled he'd been stabbed or worse._

" _Mercy," the American demanded hoarsely. He had a spitty, rattling cough, and Arthur knew immediately that it was pneumonia; a certified death sentence in that year if he wasn't attended to meticulously._

" _A French word." A third voice commented. "Trying to annoy me, are we?"_

 _Arthur turned and was startled to see himself advance with such a spring in his step. He eyed the 1770s garb; his double's red coat whipped in the stormy weather._

 _He blinked. There was no way his hat would've stayed on in that._

" _For my men," Alfred replied gallantly._

" _For who's left, you mean."_

 _The bodies swung ominously in the background._

 _Alfred's head bowed and he forced out, "Please."_

 _Arthur's eyebrows twitched; it was unfolding like a poorly written one act stage play._

" _But I thought you meant to all hang together! Give us a moment now to reset the stage." England smiled wickedly and gestured to the scaffolds with an unnecessary flourish._

 _Well then, it appeared England was firmly in the villain's role here, and...hamming it up. It was highly embarrassing to behold._

" _Alfred, you don't actually believe this rot?" Arthur demanded. "Or that I am_ _ **this**_ _flamboyant?"_

 _There was no acknowledgment._

 _Arthur leaned against the door and reached a hand through the bars to rest it on a narrow shoulder._

" _Let's imagine for one moment, shall we? That I wasn't absurdly fond of you. And in a fit of...tyrannical derangement took nothing but sadistic pleasure in seeing you starved, dirty, ill, injured, and clapped in irons. And yet…" He scrutinized the boy's state of ruined dress and plucked at the fabric. "-allowed you to stay in the blue uniform that_ _ **vexes**_ _me? Then I would waste the time, money, and resources to haul over war criminals? Here?! To a remote village with poor security that would have great difficulty housing us all? For nothing more than nostalgia? To ruin any of your remaining good memories of our times together in Massachusetts? And then I set fire to the community for no discernable reason? Even though I'm using the town!?"_

 _Arthur swatted the boy's head. "Why the devil would I do that?!"_

 _The boy didn't look up at him, but began listing, "Falmouth, Norfolk, Fairfield-"_

" _Nonono. We were at war then!" Arthur snapped. "This is AFTER I've won! Why would I set fire to my own land? Burn the spoils of war?! And-and-and this is a small village!? When you torch, you aim for symbols of power, places that can cause you trouble! This is a tiny little town. You think I'd be threatened by this and-what is that!?" He flung a hand at the scaffold. "No plea deals? No recruitments for the sake of espionage or through blackmail? I just executed them all across the board with no worries about skill sets or political use? I didn't feel like stabilizing my thirteen colonies and using familiar well-respected figures to placate ruffled communities? I just happily created gobs of martyrs for a future insurrection?!"_

 _The boy looked up at him curiously—eyes sliding away from Dream-England to focus on the the real one instead._

 _Arthur was breathing hard. "Yes. Let's say for one moment, that somehow there were no fatherly feelings involved for me whatsoever. As an Empire...as a bloody Empire who, as you often remind me, reaped the benefits of mercantilism...Yes...let's explore that. Mercantilism: where empires thrive off colonies through goods and money and trade. Which means they have to be successful, they have to be protected, they have to be sheltered from enemies and from the elements and have crops to eat to stay alive. If all the colonists are DEAD and all the towns are sacked and burnt to the ground! THEN YOU DON'T HAVE A COLONY ANYMORE! You have ravaged land and it'll be a fucking fortune to restore it!"_

 _Alfred's jaw dropped and he shifted a little nervously._

 _Arthur's chest heaved and he ripped the door off its hinges, but to his shock...the prisoner's cell was empty!_

" _Alfred? Alfred!?" He called into the space._

 _His doppelganger grabbed his shoulder in a steely white gloved grip._

 _In no mood for him, Arthur shoved him away. "Don't touch me, you!"_

 _It was the high pitch of the resulting "oof" that made England turn back around._

 _He blinked as he took in the crumpled form: his seven-year-old son groaned as he sat up; the adult-sized red coat dwarfed him._

 _Arthur stared. They...had both been Alfred...Some macabre version of role-playing?_

 _Unsettled by the twist, and what it might mean for how Alfred viewed him, he crouched down in the mud beside the child and immediately set about helping the child out of the overlarge garment._

 _He was...just...so unsure...how to handle this. Was it a mockery? A morbid tribute of admiration? A fear that he'd grow up into a shade of his father and inherit the worst in him?_

 _The child frowned up at him as his collar was straightened._

 _He made to help the child rise to his feet but Alfred pushed his hands away._

" _Alfred?"_

" _You're ruining everything," Alfred grumbled._

 _He tried to ignore the jab and attempted to use humor to diffuse the situation. "I'm...spoiling your nightmare? Hmm? You're welcome?"_

 _Angry blue eyes narrowed. "You don't get it. I_ _ **need**_ _this!"_

" _I don't understand."_

" _It helps me focus!"_

" _Being terrified of me, helps you focus?"_

 _Alfred crossed his arms. "I wasn't terrified. I was-was aware of how bad things could've turned out. And that-I have to be vigilant if I'm going to stay free."_

 _Arthur's smile faded and he asked solemnly, "You think I want to take away your freedom?"_

" _Why wouldn't you? You never wanted me to have it!"_

 _That 'England' was a defense mechanism then…_

 _A wall...erected to keep him from trusting too much._

 _A deliberately made, psychological, bogeyman...a...a "Dreamsquisher" who exploited vulnerability in order to toughen Alfred up._

 _Maybe there was some small place for that in the grand scheme of things. If it kept Alfred from blurting tender secrets to untrustworthy adults._

 _But Arthur wasn't going to let his face be its mask anymore._

 _He crossed his arms. "O yes, not wanting to lose a young, inexperienced colony is the same as locking him up and delighting in ways to degrade him over his passion for liberty. Did you really believe I was going to snap my fingers-" He made the motion and the child flinched. "-and ever expect you to obey me like a dog?"_

 _The child's mouth trembled, for that was often the terminology he used whenever they argued about obedience. "..."_

 _Arthur continued. "You think your pain would thrill me? Enlighten me, boy, what in your experience of the past few months has led to this misconception?"_

" _..."_

" _By all means tell me. Because if it was so, I should be overdosed in ecstasy by now and instead my heart's in a waste disposer."_

 _Alfred faltered. "...I don't...wanna...talk about this anymore…"_

" _I don't deny it would've been a very difficult transition for us. But I think you know...deep down…" He cupped the child's face, looked around their dismal surroundings, and then gazed steadily into the blue eyes. "It wouldn't have been like this…"_

 _The boy glared at him stubbornly for several beats and then slowly, slowly, slowly lost his confrontational air._

 _Arthur had to endure a few more obstinate moments as he allowed Alfred's pride its space and then...the child leaned into the soft touch._

" _I don't like how this complicates things though," the child muttered. "Stark as this is, at least this isn't muddied and confusi-"_

" _Whatever are you talking about? It's painfully simple."_

 _The boy raised an eyebrow._

 _Arthur answered: "I love you. See? Simple. And I love money: equally simple. I would not have allowed any of this to spiral into such a stupid, melodramatic waste of funds-"_

" _And what about everyone else? You really think your army and the Crown would've just let me go? A willow whip to my knuckles and I'd be on my way?"_

 _He wasn't going to make this easy, was he? Fine. "No."_

" _See!?" the boy cried out triumphantly._

" _They'd want some fitting punishment and they'd probably scare you with harsh talk of it and then you'd probably cry-"_

" _Nuh-uh! I'm a rock!"_

" _-being the poor lamb you are and believing them. And I'd be furious and I'd create such a spectacle that your little outburst at Parliament last week would look like a soap bubble popping. And I'd take you to the countryside, probably Bath, and we'd argue and lose our tempers with one another, but eventually come to an understanding. And you'd tell me about that cannonball to your leg and...and I'd...probably do things to that person when I tracked them down. And we'd have learned of your magical maladies sooner and treated you then. I'd have fixed your grasp on spelling and language and life would go on."_

" _..."_

" _It always does." If there was anything England had learned through his long life, it was that._

" _I'm s'posed to buy that!? Like-like, just like that, and it'd all be water under the bridge? And you wouldn't dredge it up to everybody at every dinner all the time or whenever you dr-"_

 _Time to break this somber mood once and for all._

" _I know, I know! I should be more strict. But I've such a soft spot for my Alfie!" Feeling rather wicked, he planted an affectionate, long lasting kiss to the child's cheek. "My sweet little Roanoke, who, even now, has trouble keeping his shoes on his feet like a big boy. I could never stay angr-"_

 _The boy's face heated up and he pushed Arthur away spluttering in embarrassment. Thoroughly amused now, Arthur couldn't stop smiling._

 _Alfred was bright red as he pointed a finger. "You-you! I'm serious here! This is a bonafide nightmare and you're making light of it!"_

 _He gestured around but, now that the narrative of the dream had been interrupted, the dream residents were just wandering around aimlessly. Some bumped into things. Arthur snorted._

" _Father!" the boy admonished._

" _I immediately resumed trade with you and protected you from Old World powers for years. What does that tell you?" He tucked a blonde lock of hair behind the child's ear. "My bark was worse than my bite by far-"_

" _I-I know that but-"_

" _And I decorated that room you're in, special. Just for you, pet. An interesting pastime for a British villain of liberty-hating-"_

" _Hey! Everybody knows villains can decorate! That's why they've got lairs. I just...but yeah...I-I know. I-I-I figured that out. Kirkland Manor has rooms for everybody and mine's just...over here. You've got blue and gold and white, and the woods's cherry. So...red. It's just...you downplayed the red. But you don't have any stars in it!"_

" _You want stars in your room?"_

" _Well, yeah." He tugged at Arthur's sleeve. "I'm...I'm...spangled, remember?"_

" _Then by Jove, we'll get you some." Arthur smiled and gave the little cheek a teasing poke. "And for the record, I do not flourish my hands like your evil admiral does when I gesture at things. France does. Poland does. Not me. I'm not flamboyant like that."_

" _...I don't think a dude in tights should be telling me he's not flamboyant. Nice lace, Ol' Man." He plucked at Arthur's collar._

" _I was having an Elizabethan dream before I was shanghaied here! It was the style then! And the lines you gave Evil!Me were_ cliché _. As was the delivery!"_

" _Geez. Everybody's a critic. Ugh, you remind me of a director I had. He never thought I could pull off a leading antagonist, either. Always made me Rosencrantz."_

 _Arthur felt his lips twist. "...You wanted to be Claudius?"_

" _Stop smirking. I could've been great...stop it."_

 _Arthur pulled the child close and pressed his cheek against the child's. "...My darling can be whatever he wants to be...He's a_ _ **free**_ _country."_

" _Now, you're patronizing me."_

" _Yes._ _ **Now**_ _, I am. I fear you often can't tell the difference. Well dear, that's what it sounds like."_

" _There has GOT to be a way to evict people from your dreams."_

* * *

Texas stretched his arms overhead. He walked his hands up the headboard until they met the wall. His elbows cracked and he relaxed.

His brother wasn't around which wasn't unusual—once Al got going, he could be a whirlwind.

He whistled as he checked his phone for the time (for some weird reason Al's room didn't have a clock) and found the day escaping him: It was nearly noon!

When he was showered and dressed, he scouted around for his brother and found him on the trampoline with Arthur.

The Briton was laying down with a pillow under his head while Alfred was using _him_ as his own pillow.

They had matching Shakespeare books in hand and were reading aloud lines.

Alfred looked over and grinned. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty!" He wordlessly asked England to hold his copy of _Hamlet._

"We have a third copy!" Alfred bounced over to the edge on his knees. "Someone has to be the girl!"

Tch. No gracias. "Think I'll pass."

North rushed by trying to tie on one shoe while walking, he had a folder with URGENT stamped across it...in his mouth.

"Reilley?" Arthur smirked as he called out. "We have a role which suits y-"

His Irish brother gave a one finger salute. When he straightened and removed the folder from his mouth, he griped, "Even if I wasn't extremely busy and important and on my way out. Alfie-boy's got the highest voice. He'd be the girl, that's how it went in the old days with Willie-"

He shut up after getting a dark look from Arthur.

Arthur's green eyes were dark as he shrugged nonchalantly. "Well, we needed someone highly dramatic and good at whining. Naturally, you sprang to mind."

Northern Ireland flushed with anger but before he could do much, Alistair (sporting an impressive bedhead) wandered in.

Well, at least Tex wasn't the only one who slept in. Plus, Tex was dressed.

"Yeh both are already fighting? I feel a wee bit left out." He dug his hand into a box of cereal.

This earned him consternation from all but the Americans. On their most desperate mornings they both took a handful of cereal and a deep gulp from their carton of milk, grabbed their keys and ran.

They were always careful not to tell Hawaii, if it happened while they were residing with her. The cereal part would be fine. It was the milk. She seemed to think they were germ factories and would spoil it with backwash.

Alistair cracked his neck. "So what's all this about?"

"I'm Claudius," Alfred explained. "And I need a Gertrude for this scene. Father's being Hamlet."

Tex was pretty sure Alistair was Alfred's hands-down-favorite-uncle and that he could've staked down that spot forever if he'd been willing to sacrifice some macho-ness. But it became clear as the seconds ticked by that he wasn't going to volunteer.

Alfred's cheeks puffed. "Do you think Rhys would do it?"

"Al...can I talk to you a minute?" Tex beckoned him back over.

"Huh? Uh, okay." He looked over his shoulder. "Dad! Find a Gertrude!"

Except getting to a private space ended up being hard. Every time they found a good one, one Kirkland or more would ruin it.

Finally, they ended up in a downright weird place.

"Dude, the light's gotta be on if I'm gonna make it."

Tex obliged and flicked the coat closet light switch. "Sooo, you and Art seem even cozier now. Am I missing something?"

Alfred got a rather bashful look and twisted the hem of his shirt. "Well, I kinda had one of my bad Revolutionary dreams…"

Tex winced; those usually got his brother down in the dumps. Except...he didn't seem too upset this go around.

"But Dad and I talked some stuff out! And...he wasn't weird about it like I thought he'd be and we're kinda...m-moving into a...pretty good spot, I think. I mean, it's not perfect and we've still got enough baggage to need several bellboys, but I think-"

"Al?! What part of ' _watch yer back_ ' did you take to mean ' _gab more_ ' to that guy?!"

"He's not just some guy! He's my father! He's..." He took a deep breath. "I think you're wrong."

"..."

"You can say ' _I toldja so'_ later, but right now…" Alfred bit his lip.

Tex sighed and knelt down (which was hard to do cuz European closets were friggin' small) "If that's how you wanna play it, fine."

Blue eyes looked up at him pensively—worried that he was angry.

Maybe it was cuz Tex wasn't the scholarly type. Maybe his tumultuous childhood and the tyrants in charge of it got him used to being wrong. Maybe it was cuz America was always so goddamn optimistic and sometimes...sometimes, he _**did**_ manage to pull off the impossible...that he never liked crushing the sparkle in those blue eyes.

And he'd held his tongue plenty of times before when America was rushing around preparing for a meeting here or across the Atlantic, wondering aloud if this would be the one where England would be impressed with him. His scientists had had another breakthrough in agriculture! He had a train that could reach from East to West! Wasn't the zipper a fascinating addition to fashion?!

Tex just...never felt the need to be "right," especially when it meant driving away someone he really cared for.

He opened his arms and Al rushed into the hug.

"But," Tex added as he gave his brother a squeeze. "I reserve the right to wallop him, if he hurts you."

Alfred's laugh was loud in his ear. "I'll give you that."

Texas pressed his face into his brother's shoulder and hoped his fears were stupid and wrong. That Al wasn't going too fast too soon, and giving Arthur too much credit.

But he was determined that if this thing did turn out to be one big, drawn out, disappointment...he'd be there. For Al's sake. And if that meant shutting up for the moment, so be it.

The brotherly bonding moment ended when Reilley abruptly opened the door to grab his coat and they accidentally gave him a scare.

"AAAAH! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Get outta there, yeh muppets!"

* * *

Arthur bookmarked his copy of _Hamlet_. Following several scenes with Alfred, who had a lot of enthusiasm for his role but couldn't quite pin down the malevolence necessary for it, they decided to take a break.

The boy had sighed after they were finished: " _I'm just not quite good enough, am I?"_

If he were ranked among children, he would've been phenomenal (why, Arthur was already fantasizing about sending the boy into a few local pageants. They could say he was home schooled. Arthur could already see himself video-recording it and shushing all the parents around him when it was his angel's turn on stage.) Only...he knew the boy was asking England as a veteran thespian and lover of the arts and wanted to be compared with adults.

Arthur had deflected it by turning to his brother. " _It's just practice, isn't it, Rhys?"_

Rhys, who'd read steadily (if not passionately) as the Queen of Denmark, blushed a bit. And Arthur had to admit, he was improving. There was a time (not terribly long ago), when Rhys only read English in a monotone.

While the Americans volunteered to make lunch, Rhys pulled Arthur aside to relay the "critical information" he'd been wanting to share.

"Come again?" Arthur blinked. He had to have heard wrong.

Rhys stared at him and repeated. "Texas doesn't believe you will remain steadfast in your attentions. That you will lose interest in America which warrants emotional distance and caution. He's sabotaging you."

"Oh."

And Arthur thought back to that pivotal night in June when Texas showed him up...simply by being open, earnest, and affectionate. He knew he was Alfred's most trusted confidante...and he knew how to throw his weight when he wanted to.

Rhys's disapproval was noticeable in the restless way he crossed and uncrossed his arms. "He voiced a similar distrust of Spain. He said...er...and I quote that ' _Spain has the attention span of a gnat_ ' and that he'd soon grow bored of Texas as well. It was, well, it was a rather unkind sentiment-"

Green eyes widened. So it wasn't just aimed at him?

"It's clear he sees their situations as very similar and considering the way they've dealt with matters for the past few centuries...He is very reluctant to allow others into their circle. It is...troublesome but...understandable...but it's toxic for Alfred who's just begun opening up to us."

Rhys looked to him expectantly for a reaction.

Yes, he felt a spark of frustration at the new obstacle but…maybe "sabotage" was too strong a word for it.

Texas had seemed genuinely pleased that Arthur had undergone the "gauntlet" of the hex. He'd been surprisingly tolerant of his stay at the Americans' home in November. He had no real reservations about Alfred learning magic from his relatives.

What was changing it now? What threat loomed unnoticed? Why was he doubting-

Abruptly, he thought of Blue's poor flattened shape and he remembered bits and pieces of Antonio's admission of a bad death in Tex's childhood.

Failed…

They'd both endured fathers who failed them...

It was hard to be indignant when...the doubt likely stemmed from...fear…an enduring sense of caution when an authority figure swept in and claimed to be the needed hero of the moment.

In his years of abandonment, Alfred subsisted on noble tales of legendary heroes to guide him. Did Texas have even that? Or...was Alfred, vulnerable and fallible as he was, the one hero who'd stayed and proven himself?

Arthur had identified Texas as an emotional support for Alfred but...it was becoming clear Alfred served a similar purpose for his brother.

Arthur wasn't prepared for the wave of sympathy, but it crashed over him all the same.

He was seeing a shadow of his child in the other boy and a longtime witness to unhappy moments.

Times England had let America down flashed through his mind. And who were all those unpleasant interactions shared with? Someone who survived from another fractured household.

Arthur had very likely nursed a healthy skepticism in the Texan through the years. But how to convince him that he fully intended to be a better role model and a fixed feature of Alfred's life from now on? If there was ever a family member (aside from Alfred) whose blessing he needed to pursue custody...It was Texas.

And then there was the matter of Antonio!

It didn't seem fair to leave the man in the dark about his son's insecurities.

"Shall we confront Texas about it?" Rhys asked in a hushed tone.

"No...not yet. I...I need to think. I have to assure him that I..."

Rhys blinked and his head cocked ever so slightly. "You're...not angry?"

Arthur chuckled mirthlessly, because it was like he was suddenly understanding the young man, when the boy had never been a mystery. And he didn't have it in him to be angry not when...

" _...Devoted as a dog..."_

" _...I showed him I was the same..."_

Not when...it was such a sad, lonely way for the two boys to have bonded.

"That's the thing...he's...afraid...He's afraid I'm going to hurt Alfred...that I'm going to disappoint him."

"Arthur-"

He gave a self-deprecating smile. "You know? He isn't wrong. I'm afraid, too. I couldn't protect him from Osha or Yamasee. I couldn't protect him from that bodoach or the UnSeelies or-or-or that bloody car, I-"

His chest heaved with emotion.

"Arth-"

"And those were the simple things. Things you could see...things you could fight. They aren't...stupid things my stupid mouth said at the most stupid of times!" He threw his copy of _Hamlet_ on the floor.

It should've been something that Rhys grasped his shoulder and gave him a slight shake.

Arthur shook his head.

He'd told himself repeatedly through the years that it had to be Alfred who initiated their reconciliation. But what would it have hurt to have taken him aside...at-at anytime! And told him anything!

' _Come see me, I miss you.'_

' _I love you. Are you well?'_

' _I'm worried for you. It hurts me to see you ill cared for.'_

' _Have you somewhere safe to stay? If you're unwell, if you're injured, if you're near, come to me! Please don't shut me out.'_

He put his head in his hands.

' _You're right, pet. I don't have a picture of us on my desk. Let's fix that.'_

He swallowed hard. "That's all it would've taken. That's all. Just a little fucking effort."

Rhys's fingers were digging into his arm.

And then...maybe things wouldn't have devolved to this. Where his child had nightmares about him that he thought of as "necessary" or where he thought being dehumanized was a tactical advantage.

While he was trying to sort himself out, Alfred shrilly called for them to help set the table.

* * *

Tex knew well that the first thing to do when ya found yourself in a hole...was to stop digging. But Al wasn't real good at that and now it was time for Big Brother to try and find a way to step in.

Blue eyes were flashing a neon S.O.S. sign to him.

Still. Let Al squirm a bit. Just a little bit.

Texas chewed his mouthful slowly while he glowered at his little brother.

Said brother made a point not to look directly at him again while he fiddled with his spoon and missed his bowl.

They'd made pigs-in-a-blanket with tomato soup, figuring it would be a warm, fun meal. Alfred began peeling the dough off one of his plate's "pigs" nervously.

They were supposed to have lunch, drop Arthur off at his session, loiter in the lobby for him, and then they'd run by the store to grab Al a new shirt and jeans to replace the printer-ruined ones.

At no point was Alfred cleared to spring their plan. That was an end of the trip thing to tell them. Something to mention on their last two days. That way...by the time the ol' folks were giving their advice, they'd be able to put an ocean between them and ignore it!

To make matters worse, the whole thing was goin' sideways. Instead of phrasing it like it was a two-person brotherly bonding trip that was penciled in the books-

"Northeast woodlands...I don't know," Arthur murmured. "What about you lot? I'd say April would be a fair time for me."

Al had gone and accidentally made it sound like an invitation!

"I do owe yeh a hunt. I did promise," Alistair shrugged as he tugged the newspaper away from Arthur.

"Hunt?" The paper fell away from Arthur's numb fingers.

God, he was so dramatic about guns. Tex was bringing his rifle, end of story. Though, maybe it was something else. The Brit _had_ been kinda quiet till America blurted the trip at him.

"Let me text Eire," Rhys murmured as he pulled out his phone. "Lest he'll feel neglected."

"Ask him if he remembers where his rabbit snares are," Alistair added around a mouthful.

"Not the rabbits," Alfred whimpered.

"Nothing was agreed on about hunting, you violent Jock! This is a camping trip. It's going to be quiet and leisurely." Arthur looked to Alfred for confirmation.

"Um, well...it's supposed to be...nice…"

Arthur nodded. "Precisely. So no rabbits are to be harmed or you're dis-invited!"

Alfred released a breath of relief.

The Brit continued with, "It's not like we'll be living off the land, that would hardly be conducive to relaxing. We'll be well-stocked with provisions so we can better enjoy the scenery. You can't enjoy nature properly when you're competing with it for survival."

Rhys tapped at the screen. "Making allowances for seasonal climates and weather disruptions whilst being out of doors...spring or summer would probably be best-Oh, Reilley's asking if it's during Beltane's Day?"

There was a beat of silence and then a loud buzz of agreement between all the Kirklands. Nods and murmurs and comments of:

"That would be best-"

"Weather should be-"

"Popular time of year so-"

"Yes, there ought to be plenty of other campers-"

"We all usually take time off then anyway so-"

"...Beltane's?" Alfred wondered.

"May Day Laddie, and ach, we heard from Canada that depressing bit about you and a tether pole-"

Alfred pointed his spoon. "Wait a minute, you guys ALL celebrate May Day? And you never post any family pics?"

That spoiled the cheer of the previous minute like a sour note on Tex's guitar.

"W-well, it's usually...we….er...it's...separate...celebrating, poppet."

Alfred frowned. "But I thought you guys told me that magic practitioners do best when they cast and partake in rituals as a group?"

There was a lot of squirming at that.

"W-well, pet," Arthur forced a smile. "That's why we take care to spend Yule together."

"So... _ **not**_ the other ones…?"

Tex saw his chance and took it. "I think it's a damn good idea to know how to do it all by your lonesome. I mean, ya don't wanna be dependent if you don't have to be?"

Rhys looked more than a little ruffled. "You don't want to learn it _**wrong**_ , either."

"Al's always been a DIY guy."

"It's different for us," Alistair argued. "We know all the ins and outs of it. The bairn still needs supervision. He's got one notch in his belt; when he reaches triple digits _**then**_ he can go off to wherever the hell he pleases, but-"

"I'm just saying, this could be a good solo flight for Al. You guys could write it all down, we'll make a checklist. And we'll call you to let you know how it goes. I mean, Al had Yule with y'all and he's a quick study."

Tex refused to buckle under the weight of the U.K.'s disapproval. The Kirklands were staring him down hard.

Alistair's gray eyes narrowed. "The Clan decides when the train-y wheels come off."

Tex tried a disarming smile. "I mean, it's not that we don't wanna hang with y'all. It's just this...was s'posed to be a relaxing trip. Gettin' bossed around by your elders doesn't make for tranquility, if ya follow my drift?"

There were some guilty glances at that. They were probably assuming Al had vented to Tex about them which...he did...pretty regularly.

It didn't help that Al hissed: "Texas!"

"Maybe there ought to be some overlap?" Rhys proposed. "Time spent there _before_ the holiday—getting settled. And then some more time afterward? The rituals aren't supposed to feel...bothersome."

Yeah, there was some heaviness in the air at that.

"Yule didn't feel like that!" Alfred reassured hastily. "I liked it a lot! It was fun and exciting and I-I-I really...and everyone was there and...food...and fun...would-would this be like that too?"

"Of course, it's a springtime celebration welcoming in the summer," Arthur explained.

"It's just hard having lessons sometimes," Alfred admitted—as if finally getting it that Texas was giving him a way out. Tex had been starting to worry he'd have to deliver a sharp kick to the shins.

The chatter died away as they leaned in to listen.

Alfred studied his spoon. "I...I'm not always good at the stuff...I don't like sucking and letting you all down."

"Now, laddie, you jus' don't get it, yet. What will make yeh _suck_ at certain subjects is what'll make yeh _gifted_ at others."

Alfred briefly made eye contact with Tex who mouthed, ' _Pop the balloon slowly. Sloooooowly.'_ He mimed the action as well. Too fast and there be a bang! Had to let the air out slowly.

Tex snapped his mouth shut as Arthur turned his way suspiciously.

Tex shrugged his shoulders and twiddled his thumbs.

Arthur frowned and turned his sights back to Alfred. The limey sensed who was the weak link and he knew just what to say. He rested a hand over Alfred's which was nervously gouging at the table's edge with his fingernails: "All magic aside, I'd very much like to have some better memories of that wilderness. With you."

From the way America stiffened, Tex knew it'd been a reference to either the American Revolution or 1812 or both.

"I…"

Come on, Al, shut him down.

"...I…"

Ally? This is your last chance! If you wanna stop this before it gets outta hand-

"Dad…I..."

Al?!

"...would like that...too."

Tex resisted slapping a hand to his forehead. Barely.

Arthur smiled brightly. "Then it's settled. I'll move around a few things in my calendar. Get it approv-"

"What about your sessions? We don't wanna mess around with those," Tex interrupted.

Arthur frowned. "I'm sure I can attend by phone or screen. I already plan to do so next week when Math-"

"Yeah, but 'in person' is always best, right?" Tex pressed on. "Or at least being on the right landmass-"

Arthur was forcibly positive and upbeat as he grit his teeth, wrangled his temper, smiled and said: "I'll manage."

Eep. Tex sidled his chair further away.

The Briton held Alfred's hand and squeezed it. "Now, do you already have a park in mind, or shall we help you review them for the size of our company?"

"Um...I've got a few places but...it's not set in stone."

Way to lose your backbone, Al!

Arthur pet Al's hair fondly. "Well, I think it'll be a smashing trip. A good way for us all to relax. Such a brilliant idea, my clever boy."

Going, going, and gone.

Al went off the deep end with that praise and left his chair to hover at Arthur's elbow and chatter at 90 miles a minute about campfire marshmallows, and ghost stories, and coffee, and could he wear his cloak?

Texas shook his head. Well, this was gonna make things tricky as all get-out.

He was about to take a drink when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and realized Rhys was watching him like a hawk.

Well, that wasn't good.

Al grabbed his sleeve, "Big Bro! It'll be fun, right? We'll make it work?"

Desperation shone in those cornflower eyes.

Tex forced a smile. "O' course. Course we'll make it work."

Alfred sagged in relief and hugged him hard.

Tex held in a sigh, _Heaven, Hell, or Bust. Here we come._

* * *

Read & Review Please! : DDD


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or Star Wars. Or Batman. Or Robitussin (not allowed in my medicine cabinet unless I'm dying). Or Villeneuve's Beauty and the Beast rewritten by Andrew Lang in 1889. Or the Zafira Tourer. Or Disneyland.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). If you're someone who doesn't turn in early and you turn in early, everybody in your house believes you're ill. More familial drama. Sibling rivalry. Feuding. The difficulties of road trips. Mr. Gray.

 **AN:** Thank you for your reviews! And a special thanks to all the readers who've made the rounds and gave Sirena a try. XD I think that one will be fun too. It'll probably be on the shorter side...lol...probably (I guess we'll see) but it should be a blast...of angst with light fluff. Yes, I suppose you can say in comparison with the other fics are...these modern ones are the happy ones. XD Happy reading, hope you enjoy the chap!

 **Chapter 15: The Favorite Uncle**

* * *

Alfred pulled on his STAR WARS pajamas.

"When'd you get those?" Tex asked as he set his phone to charge.

"These? Maybe a week or two ago? Dad saw me eyeing them and he put them in the cart. I told him I could buy it, but he didn't let me." He felt his cheeks warm.

When he'd tried to argue that he actually had plenty of clothes and didn't need them, Arthur asked if they were all in his suitcase and when he'd answered, "Pretty much," Arthur told him to get that one and one more. He went for Batman on his second choice.

"Oh."

It was clear that Tex was in a mood.

Alfred scratched his neck. "Geez, I...I know I kinda dropped the ball. Sorry."

Texas gave him a flat look.

"I'm sorry!" he insisted. "I just-earlier, he was all upset and-and I could FEEL it and I remembered what you said about letting them give advice and how it makes them happy and I-just...wanted him to be happy. And you saw him! He was...excited about the trip!"

"Al...I ain't gonna sugar coat this. This is gonna be hard to pull off."

"But we'll find a way!"

"We'll give it a go," Tex muttered as he sat down on the bed.

Tex was usually so gungho, it wasn't like him to be gunshy.

Worry pooled in his gut; was he sick?

He climbed up beside him and touched his forehead. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." He gently pushed Alfred's hand away. "I'm just worried about…stuff."

"Me moving too fast?"

"...Yeah."

Alfred kicked his legs against the mattress—listening to the springs thrum. "It's just...there was lots of stuff I was wrong about."

"..."

"No, really, listen. I know I bitched and moaned to you a lot about super heavy things...that I...attributed to him that weren't...true. I mean, yeah, he was pretty crappy to me for a long time but...there was stuff he didn't do. He...wouldn't do. And I...well, we both really...suffered foot-in-mouth syndrome for most of the Nineteenth Century..."

Blue eyes widened when Tex didn't laugh and just unbuttoned his flannel shirt.

"Texas…I-I'm sorry I made a mess of things." He blinked hard. Dammit, he didn't think he'd fucked up quite _that_ badly. "I-"

"Al, it's fine," Texas cut him off as he set his coiled belt on the dresser. "It's just...back home. It's flooding."

"Gah!" He rushed over to his laptop and typed it in. "Geez. I'm sorry I-I-stupid replacement phone. I-I don't have it set up with weather alerts. Do you need an aspirin or something?"

"Nah, I'm just tired." He pulled his boots off and the spurs clanged as they hit the floor.

Normally, he'd scold him about marking up the wood floors but…

When Tex was down to his boxers and undershirt, he slid under the covers and took his glasses off. He set them on the bedside table.

He wasn't even going for PJs. And his glasses were off already. That wasn't a good sign.

"Would it be better if I left and let you turn the light off?"

"Huh?" Tex sat up. "Nah, we gotta tire you out otherwise you'll have nightmares, right?"

"Actually, I…" Alfred readjusted his socks which were bunching around his ankles. "I think I'll be okay. Even if I DO have a nightmare...Lately, Dad and I keep floating into each other's bad dreams. How freaky cool is that?"

"Wha?"

"I know, right? Before it was like, super strong memories and emotions that'd get us into each other's heads and now we're dream sharing. It's...kinda neat. I mean, maybe we'll be able to manipulate the landscape of the next one. Think of Disneyland with no lines?"

"...Hey, Al?"

"Yeah?"

Texas traced the pattern of the coverlet. "Sooo, you've got this...special connection with Arthur cuz of blood and magic, right?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Do...do you have it with _**just**_ him?"

"Well, Rhys is an empath so he can-"

"But you...can _you_ do that, too? Or is it just with Arthur?"

Alfred scratched his ear. "I haven't really tried with anybody else-"

"Do you sense me at all?"

"Dude, of course I can sense you. We share land. Same way you can feel my death-"

"No, I mean _magically-_ "

"I…"

"That's a NO, isn't it?" he muttered.

Alfred climbed into bed and wiggled to show he needed more room.

Texas sighed and moved over a bit more.

Alfred turned to look at him. "My uncles told me I wasn't on their radar until Yule. And I still can't really do the same with them. Dad says my sense of them will grow as my magic heightens."

"...and then...you think...you'd be able to connect with me?"

Alfred blinked. "Maybe."

Dude, if he could link up with the Texas that'd be super awesome! In the past when Hawaii was still warming up to them, she'd say that it was like they shared a brain!

Before he could launch into all the hijinks they could get into if they were able to sync up, there was a knock.

The brothers shared a glance and called out, "Yes?"

Arthur opened the door.

"Turning in at nine with no fuss?" Arthur observed. "You lads feeling alright?"

Alfred stiffened. If he wasn't careful, Dad was going to go into helicopter mode and there was a strong chance he'd have medicine poured down his throat. "I'm a-okay but Tex is trying to rest."

Sorry Bro. He wasn't suffering Robitussin tonight!

Arthur frowned and moved closer. "You're unwell?"

"Nah, I'm just...dealing with floods."

"Ah yes, I know too well the feeling. If it's any consolation when I hit my first millennia, my sensitivity decreased tremendously. Perhaps it will be the same for you?"

Tex shrugged.

"Well, Rhys and I were hoping to read you a story or two-"

Alfred snapped to attention. "Magic?"

"Yes."

"Heroes?"

"Of course."

"Dragons?"

Arthur chuckled. "If you make it known you like dragons, good luck getting Rhys to belt up over the subject."

Alfred's jaw dropped. "Why...wouldn't you want to talk about dragons? Dude...you _choose_ to talk about fairies instead?"

Arthur blinked. "I'll try to catch Rhys when he faints from delight."

Alfred snorted at the thought of his stoic uncle keeling over from emotion.

He looked to see his brother's reaction but rather than being tickled he had a powerfully sour expression.

Maybe he really was sick? Traveling could do that and Tex had been in some rough areas; he could've picked up something and it was just making itself known now.

"Oh...hmmm...maybe since Tex isn't feeling so good, we should read elsewhere."

"Huh? No, I'm good you can stay!" Tex argued.

Al shook his head. "I'll take my cell. You text me if you want some medicine or anything, kay? Love you!"

He blew a kiss cuz...germs...he then pushed Arthur towards the exit.

He closed the door to a crack.

"Ally, you don't have to go-"

"Love you Big Bro, feel better!" Alfred chimed through the space and then turned to follow after Arthur.

* * *

Mathieu squeezed the stress ball as he descended the escalator. He wasn't sure why, but he kept half-fearing that some new cataclysmic event revolving around Alfred would've emerged in the last half hour of his flight approaching the U.K. and would require the Kirklands' complete attention...and Mathieu would be left at the airport.

It was a childish fear...he was a grown man and could easily take a taxi but…

The fear of being forgotten plagued him.

His counselor Meegan had suggested that it was a persisting childhood fear. Which sounded right. She said his time alone had likely instilled it as a deep set insecurity. One that challenged his ability to trust.

But how do you fix that? He'd wondered endlessly. When he finally asked her, she'd smiled a bit sadly as she stated, _"You must know your own value."_

Supposedly that would help him by not allowing others to dictate his worth through their actions or...how he perceived their actions...

Which...just didn't help because...if he was really valuable...why would he be so...invisible...so often?!

He straightened his dark, forest green sweater. He'd put it on as a mild way to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. If he'd been back home, he might've visited Newfoundland or Labrador for a night of drinks.

He looked around; Rhys and Arthur were supposed to be the ones—

He felt his face warm as he noticed the two men standing by a waste receptacle.

When he approached them and they smiled, he felt flustered.

He was remembered...all that worrying and...he was remembered. He tucked the stress ball into his pocket.

"H-hello, thank you for letting me come on such short notice, I know you-"

He was more than a little caught off guard when Arthur pulled him into a hug rather than a handshake. He knew he'd been testing the man's patience lately.

"It's good to see you, lad."

He sank into the embrace.

Rhys helped him retrieve his luggage and then they treated him to an upscale dinner at a fine French restaurant.

The chicken confit was delicious and the Red Bordeaux eased his nerves.

He smiled as he glanced over at Arthur who was enjoying salmon en papillote with a fine white wine.

Rhys ate his garbure with a tall glass of water.

Mathieu blinked; Francis would've thought that was a crime.

Still, it made it very clear who their designated driver was that night.

He enjoyed the ambiance; the shine of crystal glasses, the pristine white tablecloths, the low murmur of diners' conversations. Everything was clean and organized and calming.

They spoke of trifling matters at first: the plane, the weather, television. But that gave way to more important things; how he'd...missed Arthur and Rhys, his concerns about the wars in the other hemisphere, immigration...but it eventually led back to himself...and his counseling sessions.

"I was...hesitant at first," Mathieu admitted. "There's...such negative connotations on getting help…"

Arthur nodded. "There is. There shouldn't be, but there is. I'm proud of you for making your health a priority."

It made him feel lighter hearing that. He talked about scheduling and that he needed to make phone calls during the trip to Meegan's office.

After several deep sips of wine, he haltingly...nervously spoke of how his counselor had suggested that his childhood was the root of some of his issues.

Not all of them of course…but...but...some of them. And those were the ones...that left him...so unsure...of where he stood.

With one father dead and unknown.

Another father largely absent following his military loss...

He watched his third father-figure turn pale and take a drink of wine.

He felt his nerves tighten like a spring. It was a dangerous topic, he knew that. It could spoil the whole trip. Darken his relatives' view of him...injure Arthur. But...but...his counselor had warned him that he had a tendency to bottle up his worries and let them fester into wounds.

He...he had to gauge Arthur's reaction. See if it mattered to him.

Because it mattered so much to Mathieu to know which man's legacy he was really a part of.

That he was wanted by _someone_...

Right now, he felt like a can rolled across a floor by a janitor's broom and just ended up in one corner or another. Look, he was part of a Viking settlement, oho, now he was French, oh wait, a British citizen now...eh?

" _You must know your own value."_

"It was a difficult time," Arthur agreed readily taking a deep drink.

The man drank steadily more as Mathieu tried to ascertain how much of the man's actions were orders from the crown and how much arose from his own affections.

If he could just establish that there was some sincerity, he wouldn't feel like was wandering in a snowstorm.

Unfortunately, Arthur seemed to take it as an attack on Victorian parenting.

"I'd have never made her wear the stays or have you children take laudanum if I'd but known! O-or the wallpaper and paint?! Sooo much...just wasn't known then. About the world, about illness, about food production, good God sanitation! Lord, when I think of all the lives that might've been spared if I'd known more about water and bacteria-"

"It's always difficult for our kind," Rhys stated. "Wars, disease, culture, science, there's always something. _**Our**_ childhoods were far from perfect as well."

Mathieu frowned—feeling a bit like his uncle was trying to downplay his troubles.

He could feel Rhys's hazel eyes x-raying him. Which was usually something that happened when he'd been a ward of the British Empire and he had to give his side of a scuffle among the colonies.

Arthur sloppily tried to change the subject by abruptly sharing anecdotes from the group sessions of his anger management course in between sips of his drink. "At least I didn't snap completely like this one bloke. He threw the cash register at the customer and I didn't mean to laugh, but I did, and now I'm 'that prat in the corner' which is rather mortifying but-"

Mathieu also finally heard the event which led to Arthur's sessions.

"He got...stuck in a printer?" Mathieu repeated, trying and failing to conjure the image up.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair. "It was horrible, he was scared. I-I know that's part of why I-I got so-so angry. His bonnie blues...so wide...You know your brother, he's my little lionhearted scamp. He doesn't scare easy in those sorts of scenarios. It just caught the poor dear completely by surprise. And it wasn't his fault. Alfred has been guilty of plenty of damage, yes, the Lord knows, yes, but he was innocent in this. That man he...he just-just shouldn't have touched him! After everything that's...I know I overreacted but…"

Mathieu took a deeper drink so he could last the tirade.

"-people seem to just think they're entitled to touch him, prod him, manipulate him. He's always been pretty and now he's...he's a slip of a thing and he seems friendly and in-in-innocuous and they just reach out. I've been noticing that. At stores with clerks and..." The Briton took a hard gulp of wine. "I've been noticing it a lot more. Like he's a flower and...when I think of his magic and how he was born, I know why it makes sense, and then I get angry." He took another deep sip. "I think of Beauty and the Beast, oddly enough. You know? In the story. The actual story? How all the readers say the Beast overreacted when the father took that rose. _I_ used to think that too. Till now! Until NOW. It wasn't his rose, damn it!"

Rhys finally just reached over and snatched the bottle and glass away from Arthur's place. He set it far away on the other side of the table and scolded: "Arthur, your voice is rising-"

"It wasn't his rose! And now when I see people in the streets, plucking them from hedges: ' _She loves me, She loves me not.'_ That nonsense! Pulling the petals off!" His voice wavered. "Pulling them _off_?!"

Mathieu took another sip of his glass of wine. Everything always circled back to Alfred.

Mathieu blinked and tried to dislodge that thought. It was unfair. It was his own bias creeping forward. Alfred had NOT deserved that to happen to him. He KNEW that. That was what made Arthur so distressed. The unfairness...

He noticed both men were watching him rather closely and realized that England and Wales had been deliberately censoring their conversations not to mention Alfred until this moment.

Until Arthur couldn't hold it in anymore.

Mathieu also realized he...hadn't really asked after him. He felt a stab of guilt.

"Is he...is Alfred doing better now?"

Arthur sagged with relief at Mathieu's interest. "I think so."

Rhys stared.

Clearly, there were alternate viewpoints on the matter.

Arthur's mouth twisted. "He's...well...he's having troubles with some things of course but, he's facing them! So of the whole, I think...I think he's doing extraordin-din...very well. Given his circumstances and having...so much happen in such a short duration of time. Very resilient. Very strong. Brave." He nodded—eyes bright. "I'm _**very**_ proud of him."

When they arrived at England's home, the smell of corned beef and cabbage stew permeated the place.

Mathieu closed the door after Rhys helped a tipsy Arthur stagger over the threshold.

"There's extra if you're still hungry!" Reilley called out as he heard the front door close and lock. "I know fancy food means tiny portions! So help yourselves!"

Alfred was decked out in green with a necklace of light up plastic shamrocks that clacked loudly when he moved. They could've induced a seizure with how brightly they flashed.

Texas was noticeably less enthused for the holiday; a roughly cut out shamrock was safety pinned to the band of his hat. Camelot was curled up on his lap.

Alfred sighed, "I'm sorry Uncle Reilley, your holiday's just not as fun now that I'm not allowed to drink."

Reilley smirked and raised his beer. "I don't doubt that at all boyo, but we can still have ourselves a jig on a table if you like. Now that you're not knackered, maybe you won't fall down!"

Arthur's eyebrows came down in an angry line and Rhys struggled to keep hold of him. "Yooooou...were always a horrible influence."

"Don't be like that! Come on, deartháir beag." He brandished the glossy button pinned to his shirt: _Kiss Me I'm Irish!_ "We're all Irish today!"

"Never," the Briton spat.

"Never," Alistair seconded, dressed in orange as protest.

"H-hey Alfred," Mathieu murmured while his hand tightened on the handle of his luggage.

It was important not to project his negative feelings…

He sucked in a breath.

Whatever issues he had with Arthur's...what _felt_ like Arthur's favoritism...wasn't something to hold against Alfred…

He released his breath.

Otherwise he'd be perpetuating a toxic environment where they couldn't bond.

And...didn't he miss his little brother?

Didn't he miss those 'Bro-movie-marathons'? Prepping the week before and buying all the extras Alfred loved; whipped cream, and strawberry syrup, and sprinkles. Decorating until the pancake looked like a blobby dessert and while a small voice whispered it was sacrilege to his favorite food...it was worth it because his brother's face would light up…

Didn't he miss that?

The easy camaraderie of sharing a blanket on a couch and knowing it was only a matter of hours before he'd need to shrug out of his parka because Alfred would creep closer during a horror movie and eventually cling to him and their combined body heat would make him sweat. And it'd remind him of their childhood where Alfred was constantly sneaking into his bed when they'd finally been given separate ones. And...he didn't really mind. Even if Al did drool.

Or the way Al preferred sharing a kayak rather than paddling one on his own because, while he wouldn't say it, Mathieu being in charge of it made him feel safer. It was fun taking him on the Kipawa River. And if other more advanced kayakers tried teasing Alfred, Mathieu would point blank ask how they enjoyed Clendening Glacier since they were experts. Which usually shut them down pretty quick and Alfred's shoulders would relax again.

He felt his throat close up a bit because...yeah, of course he missed it.

The blond nodded but didn't look at him—eyes fixed on the television screen.

Ah...the cold shoulder...eh?

"A-alfie," Arthur hiccupped. "Be nice. Be nice, say 'hullo' like a good boy."

Alfred sighed and he looked over at Arthur. "Seems like you celebrated enough for us both, Old Man."

"Alfie, please? Be nice...be nice to your brother. Say hello. For Daddy?"

Alfred's mouth trembled a bit and Mathieu's stomach flopped.

This wasn't how he wanted things for their family; for guilt to be a constant motivator in their interactions.

"...Hey, Mattie."

The Canadian chewed his lip and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "H-hi, Alfred."

Neither could quite look the other in the eye.

 _Sorry, Al...next time, I'll try to make sure Arthur stays sober when we start talking._

"Perfect! Brill! Thank you, sweet." Arthur pulled them both into an awkward, lasting hug until Alfred wiggled and they were released with a breathy laugh that reeked of alcohol.

"Hey, Matt," Tex greeted. Texas had a grim look and gave him a hard eye.

He couldn't say he'd been expecting a warm welcome from them but...this was several more degrees past frigid than he anticipated.

"Hello, Texas...so er...why are you all on a trampoline?"

"O! Oh yes, I didn't say." England moved forward and clapped his hands. "Alfie's learning to fly once more! He is! He's doing a bangup job, he is."

Mathieu felt his stomach twist as Arthur gushed, "Come pet, show your brother. O sweetling, don't be shy." He turned back to Mathieu. "It is quite a thing to behold! Quite. A. Thing. How natural he is when he's in the air. Alfie, come now."

Alfred was rather pink as he shook his head.

"Please, poppet?"

Alfred went pinker and shook his head more vigorously.

Flying? He was flying?!

Yes, he'd seen him do so in the seances and he knew Alfred had managed it during their battle with the wendigo but-

His brother could fly?

It was hard to feel special next to that.

* * *

Arthur groaned. He popped in two aspirin and drank water from the faucet to swallow them down.

Good Lord. What had he been thinking drinking so much?

He remembered somber violet eyes.

" _...she suggested that my childhood may have been an influence..."_

Right.

Riiiighto.

It was always the parent's fault.

O the Kirkland Manor Wine Cellar would be put to use on this visit at least if...he had his way and could avoid Rhys.

After making sure his toiletries were packed for the fourth time, he left his room and caught sight of Alfred standing idly. A million things for them to do and he just wanted to dillydally!

"Alfred, aren't you ready _**yet**_? Did you take down your things? You've had all morning!" Arthur demanded and then winced at his own sharpness.

"Ugh, you're still _**hungover**_ ," the child muttered and then in even quieter tones, as if counting on Arthur's throbbing headache to block the soft words, went: "I hate having to deal with you when you're like this."

Arthur felt his face grow hot and he swallowed thickly, "I..I am. I'm sorry if I'm...a little...waspish."

As if it wasn't humiliating enough for Rhys to have taken him aside that morning and scolded him for his excesses last night...

" _Have you any appreciation for how easily this could be used against you in a custody case?"_

He could feel a worse rebuke in those disappointed blue eyes.

"I'm sorry," He repeated. _For letting you down…_

It _could_ be used against him…

If he wasn't careful…

If Alfred was questioned...and answered honestly…

His blood went cold as he envisioned a social worker pacing a courtroom: ' _Alfred, how much would you say Arthur drinks? How often? Can you smell it on his breath? Or off his pores? Does he slur? How impaired is his judgment? Is he violent? Do you feel safe in his care?'_

If pictures from heavy drinking nights were shared…

' _It seems you were in quite a state of undress, Mr. Kirkland. Do you think of yourself as a suitable role model? Can a man of poor impulse-control, be entrusted with the well-being of a young child?'_

Alfred nodded and sighed. He looked back to his open bedroom door. "...I...I'm just kinda sad to go. I mean, we just got my stars up all nice."

Arthur walked over to his son, and realized the boy had been admiring their handiwork from the previous weekend: there were bursts of silver metal stars on the wall where the headboard was.

"It's interesting," Mathieu offered.

Both of them jumped a bit—sometimes it was unnerving how silent Mathieu could move.

Alfred recovered more swiftly. "It was Dad's idea to get them different sizes and to set them like this."

There were more clustered at the top and then greater space as they trailed down. It gave the image of falling stars or (as Arthur privately thought) the falling sparks his wand made when he cast.

Alfred loved it, though it might've also had something to do with the fact that they'd painstakingly counted out 50.

"Very nice," Mathieu repeated but the phrase sounded colder the second time.

He wasn't sure why he did it, but Arthur abruptly the closed the door to the room and cleared his throat. "Come along, boys."

He warned Alfred to use the rail of the stairs and was pleasantly surprised when he did so. Usually, he required another reminder...or three.

There wasn't much room in the rental car Alistair brought home yesterday, so tying luggage to the roof rack was a necessity.

While Arthur was making sure they had some emergency granola bars, since they were going to drive the whole way rather than take the train, a new drama unfolded.

"Wait! We're not taking Camelot?" Alfred stated aghast as he held the struggling cat in his arms.

Arthur hastily came over and got him to release the poor thing. It wasn't easy leaning over while his head pounded and he forced himself to take long easy breaths.

"Charles will take care of him. You met my housekeeper, remember? Very good with cats, don't you worry."

"But, but, but-"

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Stupid headache.

"It wouldn't be safe for Camelot to wander the manor with so few people in it. If he got shut in a room and we couldn't find him, why the poor creature could-"

"Don't say it!" Alfred cried in horror and buried his face in Arthur's leg.

Arthur's breath left him in a rush. Careless idiot! Why on Earth did he say that?! Such an unhappy thing to tell a little boy! And one who feared starvation as a special kind of evil.

And then he felt even worse…

He'd effectively summarized what happened to Alfred. Trapped in a room, starving, why the rest of the world wondered what happened to him.

"I...I'm sorry, love. I-I'm so so sorry. I-I shouldn't have phrased it like-" He lifted the child up into his arms for a tight hug.

He pressed his lips to the child's temple and willed himself to find perseverance. He forced in several breaths, shocked with himself for the morbid insensitivity that nearly escaped him.

 _Come on, Arthur, old boy_. _Hold yourself together._

* * *

Alistair sighed as he looked over the Zafira Tourer. It got fair gas mileage, he talked the agency's listed price down, and it had just enough room for their group.

Only one thing happened, he hadn't expected: England wanted America in the middle row, middle seat and he wouldn't budge on it which meant—

"Sorry Lads, someone has to suffer and since Alfred's out, you two are up next with the youngest knees. You have been chosen," Alistair quipped.

Both gave a dry "thanks" as they were forced to accept their spots on thinly padded, fold up seats in the vehicle's third row.

He'd already planned on Texas being there if Alfred was there, because he knew the Texan could put up with a lot for his brother's sake, but now that the order had been shuffled around—

"Daaaaad!"

Arthur arranged the booster seat in the space. "It's the safest spot of a vehicle!"

"But Daaaaaaaad! I wanna sit with Tex."

"This is where you're sitting, young man!"

"Noooooooo."

"Do not whinge at me. Not with this headache."

So, aye, there was that battle going on.

And then!

It was clear in the side glances the two teens were giving each other that neither were thrilled about sharing the cramped spot or each other's company.

Great. Just what Alistair needed: to be stuck in close quarters with feuding teenagers, a whining whelp, and his brothers.

He found Eire muttering a Gaelic prayer.

He gave his brother an elbow to the ribs. "Better say another. I don't need my cards to tell me that there are lots of ways fer the tatties to go o'er the side on this one."

Only after Rhys had crossed off everyone from his clipboard as having used the loo, were they allowed to enter the vehicle.

Scotland slid into the driver's seat and looked to his left, ready to order his younger brother to search for a good radio station only—

His eyebrow twitched.

Dammit. He told Eire to get there first.

Rhys clipped his ballpoint pen to his clipboard. "Yes?"

He should've taken that as a sign and bypassed the trip altogether.

But he couldn't bring himself to abandon Alfred to Arthur and Mathieu's drama-dominated-magic-lessons.

God Almighty, the wean owed him one!

Several truly excruciating hours later, having endured near-constant complaints about music (because no more than three people could ever agree on a station at any time), appropriate conversation topics (because suddenly they needed to censor themselves and their humor on account of Alfred's age), and what felt like more pit stops than he's ever made on a military campaign in his life (even with men suffering dysentery!), Alistair finally pulled up to Kirkland Manor.

As he was slowing down, Alfred gave voice to the joy in his soul.

"Freeeeeeeedommmm!" Alfred cried and slapped the release button of his seat belt and crawled over Reilley's lap to the door.

He forced it open and before Alistair had come to a complete stop, dropped out and ran up the steps to the double doors of the estate.

"You stupid prat! You didn't put the child locks on?!"

"Uffern-"

"S'alright Scottie, he had a roll goin,' he's done it before. You can tell."

"He's fine, we've worked as stuntmen. He knows how to tuck-"

"-child locks-"

"I-I thought we just had to do that for Australia!?" Alistair barked back as he set the emergency brake.

As they exited the car and walked up to inform the staff of their arrival and make sure Alfred was in one piece, they found the entrance open.

The doors creaked as a breeze of wind passed through.

Alfred was nowhere to be found.

Neither was Mr. Gray, their usual lone greeter in off-seasons.

The clack of rapidly approaching dress shoes caught their attention. "Forgive me, sirs, there was a bit of an emergency that needed tending-"

They all heard a not so distant toilet flush.

Arthur shook his head. "I told him to go at the last stop. I _**told**_ him."

Mr. Gray smiled, "All is well, sir. He made it."

"It's the small miracles."

"Indeed, sir."

Later, when Alistair set his nephew's luggage down in the entryway, Alfred rushed over—nearly dragging their elderly butler with him.

Alistair was about to scold him for it when his nephew smiled shyly and tapped the tags on his suitcase and then looked up at the man.

Riiight. Mr. Gray had gifted him those.

"An accessory of excellent taste." The man nodded approvingly.

His nephew laughed and he gave the man's legs a gentle hug. Gray patted the child's shoulder affectionately.

It was almost a little odd seeing how quick those two had struck up a friendship, but Gray had always had a good deal of curiosity regarding America.

He remembered him as a teenager cleaning tables in the library while Alistair happened to be there looking over an old atlas.

 _Gray paused in his work and refolded his rag. "So...so that's America? Right...sir?"_

 _If he hadn't been so surprised that Gray (who seemed like the mousy sort) had dared to speak to him, he would've ignored him (he was busy!)._

" _Yes," he answered gruffly, hoping that was enough to signal his disinterest._

 _He waited for the inevitable 'he was a handsome little fellow' compliment. Like him being fair of face was some sort of consolation for his absence and rebellious nature..._

" _He looks…"_

 _Alistair nodded expectantly._

" _...a little sad."_

 _Alistair's head snapped up to study his nephew's portrait. Before he even realized he was saying it, the words were out: "Arthur had to leave before the portrait was done. Can't remember fer what...the faces were put in separately."_

" _Does he ever visit here? My father said he's never known him to but..." The man's eyes remained focused on the painting._

 _Alistair stared hard at the map, away from the sad blue eyes. "...No."_

The Scotsman remembered another time, years later when gray streaks were setting into the man's auburn hair.

 _It was late and Gray, who was an underbutler at that time, had been given the night off to attend one of his children's school recitals for Christmas. Being the worrywart he was, he still drove by to make sure there hadn't been any complications resulting from his absence._

 _After being assured that all was well, he visited the library. Curious, Alistair followed him and watched the man select a book from the shelf._

 _He lifted Arthur's tattered copy of Sir Gawain to compare it to the painting's and, finding them to be a match, nodded._

 _He flipped to the back cover, with an air of already knowing what was there, sighed as he closed it and put it away._

 _Alistair knew what was in it too. He'd seen the book enough; left open on a bed, on a table, on a floor. Had it pointed out to him enough times by anguished drunk fingers..._

"It is so good to see you, Young Master, welcome back. Here, I'll help you with your lugg-"

Alistair held up a hand. "I got it. Jus' show him what's what in an off season."

Alfred slipped his hand into the butler's and smiled. "Round 2 Tour!"

Mr. Gray smiled. "Let us hope it's less eventful than the first."

"Alas, I can't promise that. Texas is with us."

"Ah yes," the man agreed.

"Huh?" Tex turned around. "W-what?"

"We're going on a tour on what parts are open and what parts are closed, Bro."

"And where all the waste bins are," the man added pointedly.

Texas blushed.

"Yay!" Alfred cheered and then confided in an overloud whisper. "Last time, I carried lots of stuff in my pockets cuz I didn't know where I could throw it away besides the bathroom."

Gray's mouth twisted like he wanted to laugh. "Oh dear. Well, let us address this immediately. There's usually one in a corner, like that one there."

" _That's_ a trashcan? It's sooo fancy. I dunno if I'd feel right contaminating it."

Trusting Mr. Gray to give his standard warnings about seasonal hazards and how the estate ran when it was manned by minimal staff, Alistair sought his youngest brother out.

Mathieu and Reilley were chatting as they lugged their items up the stairs.

England was opening a bottle of Paracetamol while Rhys pulled out a bottle of water from his bag of supplies.

Their eldest brother frowned as Alistair leaned against the wall and crossed his arms.

"Alba, go tell the cook-"

He waved Rhys off.

"Oi? Albion, you still dead set on teaching them both?"

Venomous green eyes narrowed and the Briton growled possessively, "Yes. They're _**my**_ boys."

"But-"

"Mine."

Alistair released a frustrated breath through his nose. "Can I at least give Alfred the option of studying with me instead?"

"Alba…" Rhys warned as his hazel eyes flit from one brother to the other.

"No."

"Albion, I spoke with him. He doesn't want-"

"I said, ' _ **No**_.' If you want an occasional lesson, like Rhys. Like Reilley. I'll allow it. You are...a...veteran practitioner."

It sounded like it cost Arthur a lot to admit that.

"But these are my boys and you'll run your plans by me."

Gray eyes glared and green eyes flashed.

"You are not taking my Alfred from me."

Alistair rolled his eyes. "God, you're so dramatic, the hell do you think I'll do?"

Arthur went strangely still at that. "What you'll do? Or what you won't do?"

"Wha?"

Rhys moved between them. "Alba, go tell the cook we're here."

Alistair glared but the Welshman looked nervous. He kept giving a subtle shake of his head. That they didn't want to have this out. That this was not the hill worth dying on today.

The Scotsman turned on his heel and swore under his breath.

It was always something with Arthur.

Ah well, it just meant he'd have to be patient. He could trust his youngest brother to botch it up. And when Alfred got frustrated, and Alistair knew he would, Uncle Al would come to the rescue.

He smirked.

Like he often did.

It's what made him the favorite uncle.

* * *

Read & Review Please : DDD


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or William Wordsworth's "I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud." or Disney's Sword and the Stone. Or "Red Asphalt." Or Tums. Or Skype. Or Joyce Carol Oates' _Where Are You Going, Where have You Been?_ Or Facebook.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). More bits of Spanish because...Spain. Poking a little fun at Catholics. More War of 1812. World War II references. Manhattan Project. Family drama, family fluff, family angst. Flashbacks. Some more fun Celtic Knots.

 **AN:** Hey everyone! You've likely discerned a pattern; when I've got family visiting...being alone with my computer...doesn't happen. But here's a longer chap as a consolation. XD Marzue, your reviews made me lol. I think everyone's been in that spot. You shook it off like a champ! : DD Thank you all for your reviews, I love the love. They keep me focused! Hopefully, I'll get Sirena updated some time this week too. In the meanwhile, I hope you enjoy this chapter! : D

 **Chapter 16: Buzzword Bull Crap**

* * *

Rhys adjusted his hold on a stack of books and reached for his bottle of Tums. He shook several chalky tablets into his mouth before slipping it back in his pocket.

It was going to be a…melodramatic visit.

He'd known it from the time he'd first fastened his seatbelt on the ride over. From what he'd seen in his passenger visor mirror and from what he could sense, Mathieu and Texas were in some manner of feud. Attempts made by Mathieu to talk to his brother were deflected by the Texan setting his hat over his face and feigning sleep.

All of the passengers were rather short with one another when they did talk—finding petty things to argue over—namely where they ought to stop for food or the loo or what genre was best for the radio. And Reilley objected to every song and station Rhys or Alistair turned the dial to.

Then there was Alfred's creatively dangerous manner of exiting a car...which (after Mr. Gray's tour) earned him a stern talking to from all four Kirkland brothers. Worse, he'd seemed surprised and kept bringing up that he'd been a stuntman in Hollywood as a defense.

Then once they were inside Kirkland Manor, a new altercation bloomed between Arthur and Alistair. And from the dread in his stomach, Rhys knew Arthur was preparing to demand answers from their Scottish brother that would dredge up the past in the most emotionally explosive way possible.

He didn't know exactly which topic he'd seize upon (as there were many to choose from) but…

Rhys shuddered; he knew it would be very unpleasant. Perhaps, he was merely prolonging the inevitable, but when they did finally come to blows (physically or verbally or both), it was Rhys's desire to be near Alfred so he could negate the strong emotions the child would undoubtedly experience through his bond to his father.

Arthur was still grossly inexperienced when it came to neutralizing his feelings along that connection.

Rhys blinked at a sudden breeze and his eyes narrowed. Fae?

No...no...He breathed out through his nose in irritation.

Out on one small balcony, Reilley and Alistair were smoking.

The latter was unsurprising. Alistair could never free himself from the habit for long but...Reilley was smoking again...and he'd been doing better...had said he was intent on cutting back until...this.

He felt his insides twist. It was so hard to get his brothers to take their healths seriously.

They often acted like Rhys delighted in keeping a food diary and participating in yoga. He knew that discipline was necessary to keeping himself healthy.

He grimaced as the odor wafted in. He never liked them smelling of ash. It reminded him too much of torched land.

He heard a high-pitched laugh echo through the hall and followed it.

He and Alfred may as well have been the only ones talking at dinner, earlier.

It was...amusing. He knew Alfred was his nephew and not his child but…it was still...so amusing seeing some of his own traits resurface in someone else...far younger…

Alfred had a tendency to flit from topic to topic much as he did. Only where Rhys had learnt fairly quickly the importance of silence and patience, of letting others control the train and pace of conversation and commenting only when appropriate and with limited passion…Alfred cared little about what anyone else thought of his seemingly nonsensical thoughts or rather...he cast his ideas out like a fishing net to see if anyone else at the table was similar.

If people couldn't see the parallels between what he was talking about or keep up, he didn't want to talk to them. It was...refreshingly bold. When he commented on the tendency, Alfred laughed and called it "Pinballing."

They had a time of it; going from weather to satellites to space exploration to deep sea exploration to geographical exploration to poetry.

There were plenty mutters of "whiplash" while they were discussing the merits of William Wordsworth's " _I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud_."

Which was a fitting conclusionary piece that even gave voice to the topic they'd really been exploring in its title: loneliness...and wandering as a result of it.

Exploration was one of Alfred's favorite means of combatting the feeling. If you turned wandering into questing it made the endeavor more romantic.

And Alfred was terribly romantic, perhaps to some extent even more than Arthur because he was still so young.

Though it did make Rhys's thoughts cycle back to 1812 and what leaving his nephew under a toxic cloud of darkness and death had done to him. He remembered the memory Alfred shared of his injury in the aftermath. How he'd struggled to find a silver lining...and when he wasn't able to...essentially struck a match and created artificial light for himself; motivation where there wasn't real hope.

Because that hex was vicious...and wouldn't leave him such a commodity.

So he created a narrative for himself; a chronicle of adventures. If he was constantly finding new places, new people, and new ideas, he didn't have to focus on what had been lost.

Meanwhile, it was easy for Rhys to empathize on a lack of connections. He wasn't someone who bonded easily with others.

Just because one could sense the moods of people around him didn't make interactions easier. Often...it seemed to complicate things along with his tendency to take note and record others' quirks and preferences. It begged the question of sincerity: theirs and his. How much of what you were doing was to placate them and make the situation smoother for yourself because conflict was tiring and tedious? Did they actually like you or the way you tended their needs? How much of their feelings towards you was thus manipulated? Were they wholly artificial relationships?

He'd never been particularly good at lying...at giving false information. But he did sometimes lend himself, his strategies, his ear, his attention and service in subservient ways that could be mistaken as loyalty. Plenty of royal and aristocratic social climbers realized that too late.

Having arrived at Arthur's bedroom door, Rhys shifted his hold on a small stack of books and knocked.

Arthur called out that it was open and Rhys let himself in.

His youngest brother still looked rather haggard; his indulgence in alcohol the previous night was still being paid for.

At first, his brother gave him a quizzical look, then a knowing one as he took in what Rhys was carrying.

"Alfred! Your uncle's here to read to you."

The child rushed out of his adjacent room and slid across the floor in footed pajamas. His face lit up. The less daring side of Rhys reasoned that it was at the sight of more Welsh fairy tales. The child adored stories...particularly ones he'd never heard before...or couldn't remember.

"You came for me?!" The boy grinned.

Rhys froze and scanned the child's features. He'd said those exact words in Essex in 1814 though with none of that cheer.

 _Blue eyes narrowed and the flickering light of flame in the harbor cast dark shadows on the youth's face. "You came for me."_

 _Wales' straightened his spine—aware his men were gauging his every move and would no doubt report any sign of weakness to England. "Yes."_

He'd then drawn his knife and demanded the boy's unconditional surrender and watched those eyes blaze brighter than—

Arthur cleared his voice harshly.

Rhys blinked and noticed his nephew had his arms out though they were starting to falter.

Rhys knelt down and leaned into the embrace—using his free arm to hold him close. Alfred sighed and pressed close—his arms knocking the books from Rhys's hold to reach around his uncle.

If he had done things differently...thrown that knife to the ground...made his men fall back and leave them room—

"K-wuch? Kitch?" Alfred murmured soft enough for only him to hear.

He rested his face against the small shoulder and held him tighter and nodded. "Cwtch."

* * *

" _-and you're against him teaching your son because…?"_

Arthur paced the room as his early morning counseling session proceeded via Skype.

Dr. Hargreaves started by apologizing for upsetting Alfred and for all the aspects of the office and himself that might have triggered his episode. Which put Arthur at greater ease than he expected...and he shared more than he anticipated.

They got to talking about the vulnerability of children. How you couldn't protect them from everything...you'd happily give your eyeteeth but...

Even though Arthur knew that; it always gutted him when he couldn't protect his wards.

When the man asked if he thought his own childhood was affecting his perception, he brushed it off.

Yes, tragedy was no stranger to him.

He'd known pain, humiliation, terror...

It was just...different.

It made him into something fierce.

It made his wards...

He thought of the Fall of Hong Kong, The Bombing of Darwin, the invasion of New Zealand's waters by Axis forces…

The man just didn't understand how awful it was.

He was over two millennia old. While most of them were so young. It was natural to feel protective...to feel responsible...when they were injured and scared and looking to him to bloody do something.

And the fact that when he couldn't deal with the threat alone...he just...

It reminded him of how his government and Canada's had contributed to the Manhattan Project...while America shouldered most of the weight...and risk…

Which...if it hadn't made him feel terrible before that he lacked the space and resources to do the testing himself...

His teeth clenched. If it had felt like a dereliction of duty in the 1940s leaving such a task to his teenaged, estranged ex-colony...

Knowing now that it was his seven year old child being tested on…

That England and his government had pushed for it. Had hungrily waited for information to bolster their own firepower.

And he'd never even had the decency to accompany him during a testing. There were just so many other battles to fight...and so he...just...threw what resources and funds he could afford.

Thrown money and equipment and scientists at America and convinced himself it was enough. That if America could drag himself to meetings following a testing, it couldn't be so terrible. And it didn't help that his own envy of that strength and that weapon, kept him from probing too deeply in conversation.

Or maybe their governments were conspiring against them again…

That he was always conveniently busy...they always kept him conveniently busy...because if he'd been horrified by what Japan suffered for the price of war...how could he handle what America endured for the high cost of science?

Arthur forced a breath. "It's difficult. Entrusting your child to….anyone else. Do you have children?"

" _I do. A little-"_

"Have you any idea how many wards _I've_ raised? And in dangerous times I...from child to adult—I've mopped up every kind of mess you can imagine. Of course I have. No fuss. I adore my little ones...I do it gladly. But...not everyone will be like me. Not everyone will deal with-"

" _Dealing with those other people in the outside world is part of growing up."_

Green eyes flashed. "Home is supposed to be safe!"

" _I'm...unsure why Alistair's desire to commandeer the geography lessons you had planned for Alfred is so...vexing for you. Is there no way to for you two to instruct him jointly or simultaneously?"_

Arthur sighed.

Geography...because he wasn't sure how well Dr. Hargreaves would take discussions about magic...yet.

" _I don't understand. Is he aggressive to your child?"_

It would be so easy to vilify him.

"He's an aggressive person," Arthur stated readily.

His first instinct was to share some of his brother's waspish moments from Yule.

But…

Against his will he also remembered how swiftly Alistair volunteered to hunt down the bodoach. Or how willingly he came to America's aid during Osha's plot. Talked his government into lifting the ban they'd placed on England traveling.

Or...

" _Dinna fear…"_ was the familiar whisper on a stormy night. " _I am here, yet."_

Or…

Seeing him steal across the room in the shadows of Roman pillars.

" _Albion," He breathed. Then knelt and beckoned him over._

 _How Albion nearly tripped over his own sandals sprinting over to him. And how he'd clung to his brother so tightly he'd felt his brother's back crack. And he didn't complain._

 _The joy was short lived as a Roman soldier's shadow fell over them both._

Arthur's mouth twisted. "But I don't think...he'd deliberately injure him...though he has a temper..."

" _Is he careless? Or-"_

"Tactless is more like it. Stupid could be even closer." He huffed and crossed his arms.

" _Has your son vocalized a preference in instructor?"_

Thick eyebrows raised in surprise. "Wot? Er...well...I haven't made him aware of his uncle's offer."

His counselor didn't quite frown but he did look displeased at that information.

Feeling frustrated, Arthur explained. "This is an opportunity for us three, Mathieu, Alfred, and myself, to bond."

" _And you feel your brother's trying to infringe on that?"_

"Yes and…"

Maybe it was his ability to keep secrets that had Arthur so... _vexed…_

All these years...so many opportunities...lost...because his damned brother never shared what he knew. He didn't think he could forgive him for it. When...his actions helped prolong the damned estrangement!

" _Does he have your child's trust?"_

And those were the words that twisted the knife.

" _I understand that you and your brother have a longstanding history and good reason for anger and distrust. But...I don't think it's fair to Alfred to be used like this."_

Another sharp twist…

Of course he didn't want his son to feel like a pawn between himself and his brother.

"No," He agreed gruffly.

He wasn't like Osha…

Something must have shown on Arthur's face then because the man's eyebrows lifted with an epiphany. " _Do you...do you fear your son favors him?"_

 _Over me?_ Arthur thought and he looked down. Yes. Yes. He did. At times...

Alistair, who was greeted with hugs. Whose exploits were listened to with great admiration. Even the Scotsman's foulest moods were easily forgiven if he tossed a large bag of Doritos to Alfred.

Arthur finished the session with a lingering sense of frustration.

He was being given more journal exercises, this time about insecurities, when what sounded suspiciously like a kitchen timer dinged from somewhere in the hall.

There was the sound of running feet and then the door opened.

Alfred was slightly out of breath, but smiling at least until he realized the screen was still on.

Displeased with the direction of the last session, Arthur gave the doctor a bit of a brushoff.

Even as the man remarked, " _So, he still waits for you after every single session?"_

It was a soft prod to recognize the love there, mixed in with the fear and paranoia.

He knew that. He knew also, that Alfred wouldn't bother with this if it was Alistair.

And so the attention stung of perceived weakness and it hurt his pride.

Alfred's countenance cheered up considerably when he closed the laptop.

When Arthur commented on it, the child sighed.

"I just…"

"I'm perfectly safe," He assured.

Yes, he'd needed the young nation's help during the World Wars but...was he forever to be judged on those occasions and not the plethora of times he'd guarded and aided _him_ before?

Alfred gave a grudging nod.

Arthur thought the child was going to brood but he surprised him by reaching out and grabbing Arthur's trouser leg. "I-I know I seem crazy!"

"Nono love, that's not-"

"But I was just the same! I wanted to believe they could make me better. That they'd see stuff I couldn't. That they'd help me. Same as you. The same! Only that's not what happened. So how can you be so sure? After what happened to me, how can you be so sure it won't happen to you?!"

For a moment, Arthur was stunned.

After so many weeks of shrugs and brush-offs. That he was being so open...honest...

That he saw a lot of himself in Arthur…and his vulnerability now made him more relatable.

He reached for the hand gripping his leg and held it—admitting quietly, "No one can ever be one hundred percent sure of anything."

He'd never thought he'd lose his thirteen colonies, never thought the sun would set on his empire, never thought contraptions like airplanes would dominate the skies, or fathomed a world where nuclear energy would even materialize.

Discontent with that answer, Alfred pressed. "He could learn things about you. Use them against you."

Arthur rubbed his hands along the child's shoulders to try and comfort him. But before he could say more—

 _Alfred sat down heavily on a cold linoleum floor hopelessly dizzy—leaning into the corner made by a wall and a vending machine._

 _The machine was thrumming, the wall was peeling, and the fluorescent lights flickered constantly. Had this place been properly inspected?_

 _It was a random thought but...where were the fire extinguishers? The light-up EXIT signs? The framed emergency evacuation map that buildings were supposed to have posted in multiple areas?_

" _Come walk outside. The sun and the air will help you." She'd been making him do that a lot lately._

 _He shook his head._

" _You suffer because you are too connected to things. You are weighed down. Come to me." Her bracelets jangled. "We will walk where the sky will smile on us."_

 _Joyce Carol Oates'_ _Where are you going, Where Have You Been?_ _flitted through his mind. Of going out, out, out into the world. But he didn't know why._

 _Something was smothering the "why" down, so it wouldn't bother him._

 _She beckoned again._

 _No. He didn't want to._

 _He wanted to stay. He huddled next to the snack machine—feeling the warm exhaust of the unit._

 _His speech was slurred. Yeah, there was definitely something at work in the smoothies they were giving him. Cleansing health food his ass! He'd need to put his foot down._

" _S-s-someone might come to...visit me…today..." He forced out. Even if they hadn't yesterday, or the day before that, or the week before that…_

 _He had...letters from...Arthur._

 _He pulled one from his pocket. And frowned. One? Only one?_

 _His head hurt. Weren't there more?_

 _Didn't know where the rest had gone. He twisted his fingers around the bookmark. Did he throw them away?_

 _It made bile rise to his throat._

 _No! Never. But maybe they did. He never threw them away!_

 _A strong urge to search the trashcans filled him but he batted it down._

 _Maybe she was right? Maybe he should go outside. Away from the quiet, here._

 _Quiet?_

 _Quiet?_

 _Was it supposed to be quiet here?_

 _Yes. Clinics were supposed to be quiet. That made them tranquil._

 _No. Wait. Where were the other doctors? The other patients?_

 _It was cleared especially for his use, she replied…_

 _Right._

 _Just for him…_

 _Just for him?_

 _She pulled at his elbow._

 _No! He had people coming!_

 _Brown eyes…_

 _Violet eyes?_

 _Green eyes?_

" _No one is coming," She murmured with finality._

 _And it's weird because he swore even if that was what he'd been despairing over...when did it leave his lips?_

 _And suddenly it's 1826 and he's a fledgling nation standing in a graveyard, watching humans who were allowed to stand closer to the coffin. because they aged and he didn't, leave._

 _It doesn't really matter. Standing here or there or anywhere._

 _All his founding fathers are dead._

 _And he's so bloody alone._

 _And there's no one anywhere that cares. That really cares about Alfred and not America._

 _It's freedom in its ultimate form; without limit and reason and there's nothing to cling to._

 _It feels like falling or drowning or both. And there should be rage or fear or sorrow or something! And he knows it's never the fall that kills you. It's the landing. But the coldness in him rises up to meet it all. And if it happens, the dreaded landing, he doesn't feel it._

 _The warmth of sunshine is on his skin and he can't remember when he left the automatic sliding doors behind him._

 _But it doesn't matter. Because she's right:_

 _No one is coming._

* * *

Tex frowned at a weird abstract painting that was apparently made by Wy according to the scribbled signature in the corner. He'd bumped it while coming out from the toilet and the thing fell off the wall. He was trying to use the mounting on the back to figure out how it was supposed to hang.

But it's wire was almost perfectly strung through the middle. So it was a fifty-fifty shot.

Aw hell with it. He set the weird thing (loops of blue and green) back up onto the wall and returned to his quest: tracking down Al.

After all, Al being unaccounted for in December, led him to befriending a bad-news-bogeyman. They did not need a repeat of that.

He checked rooms systematically.

Yesterday, he and Mathieu shared some words after his and Al's tour with Gray. He'd been rearranging his room because the place was just so damn impersonal: bed, drapes, dresser, closet. When he'd found Matt leaning against the door frame.

" _I don't want to fight with you," The Canadian murmured._

 _He'd tried to say something similar when they were seated together in the car, but Tex had tuned him out._

" _Tch. I wouldn't wanna fight with me either. But here ya are. Ya shoulda thought of all that before ya-"_

" _This is an opportunity for all of us to-"_

" _No. Don't waste your breath on that positive buzz word bullcrap with me."_

 _Violet eyes widened._

" _And don't give me that 'I'm looking to you for advice' bit either. I gave it. You didn't take it."_

" _Texas, I'm trying to make amends-"_

" _Try harder."_

" _...I...I don't know exactly...how to…"_

 _Maybe it was because it was so friggin' obvious that 'Dude, I'm sorry I was a jackass to you' was a good place to start and Matt was so oblivious to that..._

 _That Tex's train changed rails. "Ya know what? Ya know whaaat? Okay. Okay." He tried to keep a spiteful smirk from crossing his face. "I'll think of something. Keep you posted."_

 _Matt blinked and seemed to relax._

Still it'd be good to have Al on board with his plan before it pulled out of the station and so he began hunting him down.

He found him in the kiddie room...with Arthur.

They were in the rocking chair and the Briton was speaking in soft, solemn tones.

Clearly, something traumatic had happened.

He felt irritated. Why didn't Al text him that he needed him?

"What's all this?"

Alfred straightened and rubbed his eye. "I...I was telling him about...when I was in the clinic and she…was messing with me. My head...how she got me to leave..."

Osha…

He immediately sat down on the couch in concern. Alfred had been so tight lipped about the experience...he didn't dare act up. It could get Al to clam up. Their problems had to take a backseat.

The rocking chair resumed rocking.

Alfred frowned. "It was like she was water and could just find all the cracks in me and widen them. It...sucked."

Tex and Arthur nodded. She was a real witch and she'd done a real number on him.

"She knew how to prey on...my fears that no one was coming for m-"

"But she was wrong," Tex asserted immediately.

Alfred gave a shuddery sigh of relief and tiredly smiled. "Yeah...she was wrong."

His little brother went quiet not long after that and relaxed into Arthur's hold even more. He gradually grew aware of the T.V. and wanted Arthur to turn the volume up on _The Sword and the Stone_. Even while Arthur complained that it was nothing like the truth in any shape. To which Alfred rebutted: "Why do you own it then?"

Tex slouched; he ought to have been glad his brother was finally opening up...and he was but...it was just…

It was...supposed to be to him first….

Him first and then...THEN the rest of 'em.

He was left dealing with a sickish feeling in his stomach and eager for a distraction, picked up his phone after the first ring...without really thinking or checking.

" _Hola mijo."_

"H-huh?"

" _Inglaterra texted me just now that you seemed upset."_ He paused a beat. " _Tell Papi what's wrong."_

Texas glared at Arthur, who held his gaze coolly. The Lone Star State held the phone to his ear and moved to the edge of the room so his conversation wouldn't interrupt Al's movie.

"Nothing's wrong, Papi."

" _I know mi hijo, that's what I told him. That you and I had come to an understanding. You tell me when I'm needed and THEN I come and destroy your enemies. But...well…"_ He laughed lightly. " _He got me to worrying about you."_

"Uh…" Tex shifted uncomfortably.

" _I know, I know. You are big and strong now and don't need me mothering you like a baby chick."_

"Y-yeah." He needed to end the conversation quickly without seeming like he wanted to end it quickly and arouse his father's suspicions. "You know England, there's...just so much drama here. It's hard for him to believe I don't have any."

" _Hmmmm."_

He could practically picture Spain's wheels turning.

" _You know...you could come here? There are many places, I still wish to take you if you'd like to visit. You left early last time..."_

"Huh?"

" _If you want to be away from the drama…"_

He stiffened. No sir! That would play right into Arthur's hands.

"Nah, Al needs me here."

" _I see…"_ He sounded disappointed.

Tex shouldn't have felt anything but a tiny twinge in his stomach made him feel pretty rotten. Even though he really didn't owe this guy anything.

He scuffed the toe of his boot along the floor. "Y-yeah…"

" _¿Estás segura de que no necesitas nada?"_

"Nah, I...It's fine. Sorry to getcha all riled up. I'm sorry you were bothered."

" _Never."_

"Huh?"

" _You are not a bother to me. Never."_

Great. Now things were hella awkward. Maybe he should just hang up? Maybe a quick 'Thanks' for formality's sake and then drop the call like something poisonous.

" _Tejas? Are they being kind to you?"_ The tone was super serious.

"Uh, yeah, yeah, sure. Why?"

"... _There is something missing in your voice."_

Subtlety was never Spain's strong suit but neither was reading the mood. So even though he wasn't sure what the lack was...he could hear it...and he was bold enough to comment on it.

So Tex gave a crumb; a teensy truth that wouldn't jeopardize anything: "It's cold and dark and I miss the sun."

He knew Al was missing sunshine too. His brother had sighed a ton during their ride over— looking out into grey skies.

Spain then chalked it up as "ennui" and invited him again more vigorously, even if it was just for a short visit on the coasts where the temperature would be higher. He would rouse Tex's spirits and then they could head back to Texas' state for Easter.

He was persistent; he had to give him that and now he was trying to lengthen the time of the not-agreed-upon trip.

"Papi, I got floods and storms and Eas-"

" _I saw in the news! Do you need me? You want me to come to you now? I-"_

"I'm good, I'm makin' it-"

There was a frustrated silence; Spain was a man of action and didn't like being benched.

" _Tejas, sabes que te quiero."_

Tex flushed and fidgeted and chewed at his lip. "Yeah, I know."

" _If there is_ _ **anything**_ _you need, I will get it to y-"_

"Ya know...there is something. A-a dish you made! The one I really liked with the rice and the prawns-" There. That ought to get him off the hook. Antonio could feel fulfilled and Tex might even pick up something semi-useful.

He could practically hear Spain lean forward. " _Paella?"_

"Yeah, that."

" _Paella."_

It took him replying the word back to Spain three times with the correct pronunciation before the man started bombarding him with the recipe in Spanish.

"Whoa there, cowboy, you're at a full gallop and I ain't even walked my saddle over to the horse."

" _Sorrysorrysorry, right. En inglés-"_ It was interesting; it was the first time, Spain sounded a little annoyed to be speaking in English. He usually made out like it was no big deal to communicate that way.

Though...he did take every opportunity he could to prompt Texas to speak with him in Spanish...even though Tex was rusty as hell. And it was a toss-up whether he'd pronounce with "s" or "th" on certain words.

Sometimes he'd humor him and he'd let the Spaniard go and talk circles around him. But he'd eventually realize Tex only got a portion of it and he'd speak in English again.

"Yup, if you could type it up in English, that'd really help-"

" _Wait! I have a better idea. Mijo, you get the ingredients and tomorrow, set up your computer and Papi will walk you through. Like a cooking show! We will be cooking and talking and seeing each other. We will have fun!"_

Stunned silence was taken as consent and Spain delightedly began listing what they'd need.

* * *

Alfred's legs kicked back and forth and he took another sip of hot chocolate and then placed it down on a small side table that was set next to his desk.

Now this was how learning was s'posed to be: relaxed.

The nursery was their official classroom and the Kirklands had spent part of the morning hooking up a projector and screen against one wall.

It took them until mid morning to finish because they were old and technology was an enemy and they wouldn't listen to him until Reilley rage-quit the endeavor.

Alfred casually jotted down notes in shorthand cursive as his father and uncle lectured on about: MAGICAL SAFETY.

The best part by far were the crude stick figures incorporated into the powerpoint (courtesy of Alistair and Reilley). They got Rhys's mouth to twitch into an almost-smile more often than not and lessened the 'Red Asphalt' feel of the content.

They'd gone over Suspicious Magical Activity: where the caster or spell was unidentified and the importance of relaying such information to trusted fellow casters was vital.

Alfred knew that was a less than subtle poke about him not telling them about the elferingewort that had ringed the estate. Whoops.

They went over what items and charms could protect against or drive off malevolent fae.

Alfred held up the iron ring hanging from his necklace chain. His uncle and father both nodded approvingly.

They also covered magical boundaries...like running water, which could either signal that you were entering a magical realm or offer protection from certain types of spellcasting and creatures. Though there were also water dwelling creatures that could be dangerous loitering there. Ya know, out of the frying pan and into the fire.

It was pretty straight forward. Alfred looked over to where Mathieu was taking down notes. They both had desks but Alfred was settled in a child-sized desk and chair while Mathieu was in an adult one.

When Rhys concluded the lecture, Arthur turned the lights back on.

"We now have some worksheets regarding the information you've just learned."

Alfred loved them; there was a word puzzle, a list of matching, and then fill-in-the-blank exercises for key terms.

Then there were three connect-the-dots; the first was easy: Shield Knot (though he learned through the heading of the paper that it could also be called a Quaternary Knot and he saw in two squares at the bottom there were different designs you could use that would also work.) In his off time, he might follow that up and see which one he could do the best, which one he could do the quickest, and which one he needed to write off.

Next up was the Trinity Knot which wasn't too hard. And it was cool in that it could be used to drum up energy for Art, for Healing, and for Metalsmithing.

The last one was super hard and he had to erase a bunch. When Arthur's shadow loomed over him, he felt his face grow hot.

He wasn't sure how to feel when Arthur murmured, "The Dara Knot is difficult. Particularly, this version where it's a more literal oak invocation. There's an alternate circular version that I find quite a bit easier. Though...you've got the roots down perfectly."

"It's the top half that's hard," He muttered.

Arthur's hand pet his hair gently. "You're doing very well."

He calmed down a lot after that and was quick to show Arthur the final project—leaving his seat to walk over.

"That's wonderful, Sweet," Arthur praised.

Alfred smiled back and made to return to his desk only...he saw Mathieu still hard at work.

Maybe he was having trouble with the connect-the-dots, too. Blue eyes scanned his brother's papers and he stiffened.

They were different.

Entirely different; Mattie's papers were covered with question and answer styled work and exercises. And from the look of it, his papers had a picture of the different knots and a box for Mathieu to recreate them in.

So…

So then…

Alfred had the "Baby version" and Mathieu...

"I need to go to the bathroom!" He announced loudly—setting his papers on his desk and leaving the room.

He went down to the kitchen for a snack to ease his nerves as he contemplated ditching the class altogether. It was supposed to go until noon, break for lunch, and then continue until two but…

His heart just wasn't in it now.

He was surprised to find an amused Aoife sitting at a small wooden table piping icing over thumbprint cookies. The completed ones were on a large plate.

She looked up. "Ooh, what a thundercloud. S'matter my duck?"

"N-nothing!" He blurted.

She scoffed and pushed forward the cookie plate.

He started to reach for it but she pulled it back.

"Want to try again? S'matter, luv?"

"My lesson's not going good," He admitted. "Er...well."

She made a sympathetic sound and pushed it back towards him—letting him take one this time. "Well, I'm sorry to hear that. Here, sit for a tic and enjoy the show. I am. He's got no patience; that one."

Texas had his laptop plugged into a socket and balanced on one of the counters. He was frowning as he took instructions from a lively Spain, who was wearing a bright red and yellow apron and whose kitchen was impressively clean and organized.

Texas's counters were noticeably less pristine: with splashes of sauces and rice and seafood shells. It was going as well as Alfred had expected (when his bro had told him about his plans he'd saluted and wished him good luck). It wasn't that Tex was a bad cook. No. Not at all. It was just...if Tex didn't like getting directions when he was lost in a desert...naturally, he wasn't going to take orders from his ex-boss too well.

" _Bueno. Now add, paprika, tomatoes, and the garlic cloves."_

"Right, I'm on it. Now when do I add the lemon juice? Now?"

" _Nononono. Wait. That is near the end. There is still much to do. Let it cook 5 minutes."_

"Tchhhhh. Fine. This takes forever." Tex set the pan back down onto the burner.

" _Mijo, we do not rush cooking or eating. Remember? What I was telling you about when you were visiting? Sobremesa."_

"Yeah, yeah," Tex stretched and looked to the side and caught sight of Alfred. "Hey you! I thought you had class. You finish up early? Lunch ain't done yet, I'm hoping some time this century but I can't really promise. I...hey...wha's wrong?"

Alfred hesitantly shuffled forward. "Nothing."

Brown eyes narrowed and he repeated himself. "Wha's wrong?"

"Texas..." He gave a discreet shake of his head; he didn't want to get into this with Spain and Aoife right here. "Teeeex."

His brother's nostrils flared. "Fine."

" _America."_

They both started, surprised to hear Spain sound so displeased. " _Why do you always butcher his beautiful name?"_

Texas tensed. "Papi. Don't."

" _Tejas,"_ Spain scolded. " _I am asking America."_

Alfred slowly faced the screen.

"NO! No. We have rules," Texas argued.

Alfred looked from Texas to Antonio and back to Texas.

"Don't do it," Tex muttered.

Alfred sucked in a breath, faced Spain and said—

"Tea House."

Aoife howled with laughter at the back of the room.

Dammit.

Alfred tried again. "Taste? Tayest?"

The cook started snorting.

"This is why we have that rule!" Texas moaned.

"T-"

Texas covered Alfred's mouth with his hand. "Shhhhhh. God, I love you but shhhhh. You can't say it. It's fine. Texas is good. Texas is perfect."

Alfred's gaze tentatively went back to Spain.

He wore a flat expression as he studied Alfred. " _I may have to punish you."_

Texas put his hands on his hips confrontationally. "Papi, don't be like that. It's not personal. There's lots of words he can't say. This is one of 'em."

Spain then abruptly changed the subject to...Easter.

Alfred blinked and looked at his brother. Dude. Even _they_ hadn't planned anything definitively yet.

Tex rolled his eyes. "You're not gonna let the Easter thing die, are ya Papi?"

" _Well, I saw England posted that you're all camping for May Day?"_ He seemed to be waiting for an invitation no matter how grudging but...

Both Jones had stiffened.

One; because England had now broadcast their plans to friggin' everyone.

And Two; Dude, England had Spain as a friend on _Facebook?_

Tch. God. They were such frenemies. Did his dad have France on his list too?

" _Halloween...technically. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's,_ " Spain ticked off the holidays on his fingers. " _All spent with the pirata."_

Tex frowned and set the burner to a lower temp while they argued.

Spain noticed and told him to add the rice.

As Texas stirred it in, he said. "Oi, you were there for three of those. Technically."

" _I want to see your ranch. Be in your house or you be in mine."_

"Why?"

Spain began trying to explain what hospitality meant to him. And how Texas choosing England's household over his own caused him 'much distress.'

Alfred stared. It...it kinda sounded like Spain was a little...jealous. Or frustrated or something.

It was interesting. The snippier he got, the more he sounded like Tex when his bro wanted to argue with him over where they were gonna eat and he wasn't feeling like pizza.

"Sooo….you now feel entitled to Easter?" Tex remarked—trying to figure out his dad's logic. "Because of your rivalry with Arthur? Am I gettin' that right?"

" _Yes!"_ The man's face lit up. " _You understand."_

Alfred...kinda envied how easily that man could open up.

" _Yesyesyes. It bothers me. It didn't for a while. But then Romano pointed out, he said 'Spain, does it not bother you that your son prefers to be over there? Far away from you?' He cursed more, but I know you are delicate to that."_

Tex flushed. "I ain't delicate!"

" _It is alright. I like this about you. Mijo, you were the only colony I had who could catch a butterfly without harming it. Gentle. It is good. Anyway, Romano and I were talking about you-"_

"Yeah, that's what I want to hear," Tex grumbled. "Behind my back. Stupid Romano-"

" _Be nice about Lovi. Anyway, he says 'Spain have you lost your touch? Are you bad company? Is this why Tejas does not come?'"_ Spain paused and waited for Texas to answer.

"Papi, we're just busy! Al's got his...stuff. And I'm supporting him!"

" _Who is supporting you?"_

"Me!" Alfred interrupted. He felt more than a little miffed at the accusation that Texas was being neglected. "It's just. He opted out of rodeo this year, so we didn't leave for March competitions."

Spain looked a little uneasy. " _You… you rope?"_

"No Papi, bull riding."

The man went rather pale.

"Tch. Oh don't even, you got all that 'running with the bulls' stuff. I don't wanna hear it's dangerous when I watched you bullfight."

Spain looked surprised at that, then his green eyes narrowed shrewdly. " _You snuck out of bed."_

"Damn straight, I did."

" _Stir in the broth now."_

"Kay."

Antonio sighed. " _We can talk more on bulls later. Easter. I say, we can celebrate it at your San Fernando Cathedral. I do want to see it after so long. We can go to Mass and I can meet with your minister. Which reminds me!"_

The Spaniard picked his own laptop up and carried it over to some kind of home altar Antonio had set up; the table was covered in framed pictures and paintings.

Spain angled the camera down and Tex blushed embarrassedly as an old painting the size of a dinner plate came into view.

" _Soooo cute!"_ Antonio gushed. " _America! Look at Junior!"_

"Awwwww," Alfred grinned and parroted: "Look at Junior."

His brother was around ten or eleven and dressed up in some bright, tightly tailored yellow jacket that was decorated in bold red beading and flowery embroidery. He had on a bright teal blue neckerchief with a matching rosary, and a thin iron set of glasses.

"Ugh, I look so stupid," Tex groaned.

" _No. You are adorable!"_ Spain announced in a tone that brooked no argument. " _Look at your sweet little smile!"_

"Think you can photocopy that for me?" Al asked a bit too innocently.

"Al!" Tex frowned.

" _Of course! Of course! Of course!"_ Antonio beamed. " _But this mijo, is what I forgot to-"_

Tex's eyebrows raised and his mouth opened a bit. If he'd been balancing straw or a cigarette, he'd have dropped it.

Alfred's eyes narrowed. There on the corner of the piece was a turquoise set of rosary beads.

Alfred blinked. Whoa! If those were the same ones in the painting they were in hella great shape!

" _We can meet for Easter and I will return them to you!"_ Antonio proclaimed...like it was the best idea ever...at least until he realized the necklace was a little...small.

"Geez, I haven't worn that one since I was a scrawny fourteen or fifteen-year-old?" Tex scoffed.

" _Hmm, I will get a longer, stronger string. Add some more detail, yes! Yes, leave it to Papi. It will be perfecto, I promise."_

Tex looked over the altar again and clucked his tongue. "I didn't even know I was in there. I mean, I saw you had that set up when I was over but-"

Spain turned the screen back around and looked hard at Texas like he'd said a foul word during service. Alfred shrunk back a little.

Tex fidgeted. "I mean, it's just...I…kinda expected the boot after Mexico and I...and ya know annexation and 'dissolving.'"

" _Of course you are there,"_ The Spaniard's voice went harsh. " _Before when I thought you were...I didn't even know if you'd had last rites!"_

And suddenly Alfred grasped something that had been dangling just out of reach—

"Oh. My. God. You haven't told him?" Alfred gasped—giving his brother a hard poke in the ribs.

" _Told me what?"_ Spain blinked in confusion at the outburst.

"Al," Tex warned.

Alfred's jaw dropped. "You haven't!? How did that NOT come up during your visit with him?!"

Figuring he wasn't going to get a straight answer, Spain frowned and decided to continue. " _You cannot know the grief I felt combined with the torment of not knowing if your salvat-"_

"Dude! Band-aid Quick!"

"Al!"

"Dude, learn from me. Band-aid Quick. Before it festers or snowballs or-"

Texas sucked in a big breath and blurted out quickly and quietly: "I'mnotCatholicanymore."

There was silence.

It could almost have been taken as a good omen except—

The hair on Alfred's neck stood on end. "Dude, his head-"

"Yeah, that was pretty _Exorcist_." Tex agreed.

Spain's green eyes were bulging and his mouth was aghast. " _¿Puedes repetir, por favor?"_

Alfred couldn't understand a lot of Spanish that wasn't related to food and he'd admit that he wasn't always the most observant guy in the world but…

Even he could recognize a meltdown.

Tex sighed and shared a look with Al. "See? This is why I didn't wanna tell him."

"And this is why we do it over the internet, Tex. It's safer this way."

* * *

Read & Review Please : DDD


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or _The Enchanted Grouse and the Little Locked Box_. Or _Fatima's Deliverance_. Or _The Three Wondrous Fishes_. Or Google. Or Skype.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Some drama, some fluff, some angsty stuff.

 **AN:** Thank you for your reviews and your patience. I know it's been a while since I updated; in RL my work's been running me ragged. But it's my birthday and I'll post if I want to XDD

 **Chapter 17: Do That Voodoo You Do**

* * *

Arthur began to pace. Where was his boy? He'd paused the lesson so Alfred wouldn't be left too far behind. He should've returned ages ago.

Rhys and Mathieu's conversation about magical safety had gone off on a tangent about gnomes. It was drowned out by his growing concern over Alfred's absence. When five minutes became fifteen became twenty, he decided to seek him out.

"I'll return," He announced shortly.

It really was fascinating how simple it was to track Alfred down now.

As their relationship continued to heal and their connection deepened, their bond became a brightly dyed yarn strand over snow—easy to follow. If Britannia had possessed a similar ability it explained why she could always find all her sons so easily when it was time to turn in for the night.

Arthur sighed. There were so many things he wished he could ask her. Tips she used to manage her magically gifted children. Signs she looked for on when to impart certain lessons. Ways she encouraged their different gifts. If she could handle four students of differing talents, alone...shouldn't Arthur be able to manage Alfred and Mathieu?

If only he could have had more years with her, he knew he'd be a far more powerful practitioner. That he'd have more to offer his children…

He just had to hope that with his brothers' aid, his instruction would be enough.

And that Alistair didn't ruthlessly exploit the moment to sabotage Arthur.

Alfred's signature led Arthur to the kitchen and his worry began to dissipate. It was very close to lunch; perhaps, Arthur should've had them break early or asked if the child was hungry.

Only…

He'd said he needed the loo.

Arthur frowned.

Now, that he thought about it. Alfred often used the loo as a means to escape, knowing that there were few who would question or delay him about it.

Aoife waved as Arthur entered, she gestured with an icing bag. "Watchin' my new favorite soap."

Arthur looked over and took in...some sort of cooking channel instruction gone wrong. The kitchen was a mess...no...the kitchen was disorganized...Spain...Spain was a mess.

" _¿Por qué me haces esto?"_ A distraught Spain pleaded.

Good Lord, what in the world had happened?

Tex had a hand on his hip as he drawled. "Do I add the lemon juice, yet?"

A tentative Alfred was watching the spectacle with wide blue eyes. "Texxx…?"

Arthur frowned. Had Texas texted his brother to come down and support him during a fallout? But Antonio was desperate to mend ties with his offspring. It was hard to believe he'd jeopardize it for anything.

The Briton moved closer. Arthur couldn't understand everything his rival was saying, as he was talking very fast and seemed on the brink of hyperventilating, but—

" _-estás perdido-"_

It sounded along the lines of: You are lost and confused and I blame myself. A father should be a role model and the pillar of spirituality in his household. You suffered in my absence and went astray but—

" _Estoy aquí por ti-"_

"Welllllp, I'm headin' into a tunnel," Tex snapped and signed off—closing his laptop.

"Tex?!" Alfred's jaw dropped.

"What? You heard him. He was goin' loco." Tex shrugged as he stirred the contents of his saucepan.

"Bro...harsh."

"Hey, it was your bright idea to tell him."

"And it was your job to reassure him!" Alfred countered.

Tex stared. "What?"

Alfred fidgeted and his face colored. "Ya know, the whole ' _it doesn't change our relationship'_ and ' _we'll get through it together_ ' and be supportive and communicate your needs and-"

"You're going to self-help sites, now?" Tex guessed.

"NO!...yes, I've been to...a couple. I just…I mean...I know this is...big and you guys are...eh...with your...backstory and...while Dad and I are, ya know. And we're really, yeah. And I want that for you."

Arthur frowned as he tried to decipher that. He needn't have bothered for Texas spelled it out.

"Al. We aren't gonna hold hands and frolic through a meadow like you and your dad."

Arthur eyebrows shot up. Alfred wanted his brother to enjoy a repaired bond with his own father. That Alfred was promoting it…

The room blurred a bit and Arthur felt sure his heart was fit to burst.

"...We don't frolic," Alfred pouted.

"Soooo you just...hold hands and walk through a meadow?" Texas sneered.

Alfred's cheeks puffed. "I don't think I like your tone and your disapproval of tall grassed fields. And no, genius, we haven't. It's not spring, yet. You can't frolic through snow. You can bound. But you can't— Dude, what's with you? You're so tense, lately. If you need time to decompress after your mission, I get it. Go. I'll cover for you."

"That's not…" The older boy lowered his voice. "Al...I need you to…"

"You need me to what?" Alfred snapped.

Texas glared hard at his brother as he gave his meal a vigorous stir. "To just…wake up and realize…"

"Realize what?! Texas? Tell me? Whatever it is. Dude, lay it out."

It was very possible that if Arthur had stayed silent he could've learned something valuable and yet…for the sake of Alfred's trust...the Englishman cleared his throat and made his presence known.

If Alfred wanted him to know more...Alfred would tell him.

Both boys jumped.

"Y-you-when?"

"Dad!?"

Arthur strode forward. "Is everything alright? You were gone for some time, and I thought it prudent to seek you out."

"We're peachy," Texas growled and he set his pan of food down hard.

Alfred looked away.

Arthur frowned and determinedly moved closer.

Alfred sighed. "It's nothing."

Arthur gently pet his child's hair.

Texas made a derisive sound.

"It's nothing, Dad." Alfred pushed his hand away and didn't make eye contact.

Arthur knelt down. "Al-"

"God! Give him some space. I swear you geezers are making us goddamn claustrophobic!"

Green eyes narrowed. "If something is wrong, I need to be informed immediately."

Alfred still wouldn't look at him. "I didn't realize we had to report to you, Admiral!"

Arthur flinched and leaned back and as he did so, he noticed a predatory grin on Texas's face.

Alfred sucked in a breath through his teeth, squared his shoulders, and looked ready to tack something more on but...

"Dad…just…" Alfred shook his head slightly and his eyes betrayed him—looking from him to Texas and then back.

Arthur's hurt dissipated. This was a show of bravado.

He turned to the one it was for. "Texas, are you alright? I don't pretend to know what that was all about just now but-"

"It's none of your damn business. We're dealing with it. Back off."

He would've been well within his rights to challenge such disrespect under his roof "..."

But…

Alfred pressed against his leg. "Hey...I think I'm...gonna finish up my lesson."

Texas straightened his hat. "Right. I'll Google the endgame of this recipe and see you in a bit."

"Kay...I love you."

That eased the teenager's shoulders and he smiled. "Love you too, Baby Bro. Have fun with your witchcrafting. Do that voodoo you do."

Alfred forced a lighthearted laugh and discreetly tugged Arthur's trouser leg—motioning for him to follow.

On the walk back to the classroom, Arthur watched his son closely. The child sighed and stopped. Arthur paused alongside him in the hallway.

Blue eyes stayed focused straight ahead. "I...I'm sorry Tex...talked to you...like that. I'll let him know that's not cool. He'll take it better if we're alone when I tell him."

"May I ask?"

"..."

Arthur nodded. "I understand, it's not my place. I'm simply...concerned for you both. I know...I...you two...don't like hearing that you're young. And I...I understand that it...it's difficult after...so much time apart to...to come forward for help from geezers like us when...when it's obvious that we've made tremendous mistakes. But...I want you to know that I am here. I am. And if Texas needs me to talk on his behalf to his father, I will. If that would be easier I can-"

"..." Alfred released a long, hard breath.

"I understand." Arthur grudgingly accepted that they needed privacy on the matter. "I think we'll finish the Powerpoint and reconvene later tonight. Take the afternoon off. Do something enjoyable. Perhaps we can-"

"I just want him to have what we have!" Alfred burst in low tones. "I dunno how to share it! I would if I could but I...I…"

Arthur knelt down and pulled him into a hug. Small arms wrapped around his neck.

"...I just want him to have... _this_ " was breathed in Arthur's ear.

Arthur's hold tightened.

He'd call Antonio in a few hours. Give the man time to calm down and then ask him what the bloody hell he was thinking losing himself like that?! Didn't he want reconciliation?! Damnation! Didn't he want _this_?! Because Arthur had pined for this for so long. It was inconceivable that any father would pass it by.

* * *

"Wait!" Arthur commanded futilely as he tried to tie the child's scarf as the American rushed out the door.

"Snowman!"

"Now remember, 20 minute intervals!"

"Snowman!"

"And your gloves stay on. And if you're feet tingle, you let me know the moment-"

"Snowman!"

"Yes, yes, yes, we'll make one."

"Eeee!"

They gathered snow with Arthur forming the base and Alfred making the middle.

Lunch had been odd to say the least. Throughout the meal, Texas repeatedly turned down phone calls from his father and was unmoved when Mr. Gray mentioned the Spaniard's "palpable distress" on the line.

Unkind as it was, considering he'd been in the man's spot, Arthur found his sympathy for the other father eroded by disdain. Antonio needed to improve himself; his skills and his manner. He needed to better adapt himself to his child's needs and temperament.

" _I just want him to have what we have!"_

It replayed itself over and over. Each time shining light into far corners of his soul. While there was still much to improve in his opinion…the foundation! The foundation was stable at last! And knowing that granted him an inner strength. What had started as fragile hope was now steadfast conviction; not only would their bond heal but it'd be something strong and unshakable this time.

Being thus distracted by euphoria, it took him a while to realize Alistair and Rhys appeared to be quarreling. The Scotsman was so certain that their magic lessons were doomed that when he learnt that Alfred had cut out briefly, he seized upon it as proof of the American's disinterest. Which angered the Welshman (who'd painstakingly structured most of today's lesson to accommodate both students).

The argument widened with Reilley's entry and his desire to lead a lesson and how he railed against submitting a planned outline for review.

And Mathieu…

Mathieu was worryingly quiet. He'd thanked Texas for the meal and his mentors for today's class, but…

He turned down Arthur's invitation to afternoon snowman-building (before the sky darkened into another gloomy evening). Said he had a scheduled session over the phone with his counselor.

Texas, despite seeming less than enthused about the task, had been ready to join them in the elements except Hawaii had called.

Arthur looked around at the pristine landscape.

It was probably very uncomfortable for the Southwestern personification. Spain, despite having a few ski resorts and snow-capped mountains, wasn't that fond of the cold—often reveling in his Mediterranean climate and boasting about it to his rival. So England could only imagine his offspring (whose lands didn't experience snowfall at all) would feel.

Sure, he'd seen the teen engage in snowball fights with his younger brother. But it was the way he dashed in, huddled near an electric heater, and sighed a 'Hallelujah' for electricity whenever they finished, that bespoke his real feelings.

Arthur set the lower segments together and smiled at his boy, "You seem happy."

"I am!" Alfred grinned and dusted snow from his gloves.

That was good to hear. Arthur had been nigh desperate to restore his son's spirits after his reaction to Antonio and Texas's fallout. He had such a big heart. In a way...Arthur could almost understand now how the Hex had been useful to the boy. A big heart was a terrible target. A great glass thing...and yet...

Alfred glanced up at the sky and then at him.

And yet...

All that glass let in a wondrous amount of light.

Blue eyes sparkled.

Arthur chuckled. "And Texas told me you don't really like snow."

"I don't!" He affirmed cheerily.

Arthur stared. "W-well then, we don't need to be out-"

"Roll the head, you're good at making it round."

"Alfred-"

"Doooo it. Please?"

Arthur warily did as commanded—setting the head with the practiced ease of countless other winters. "Sweet. If you don't like being out here-"

"Up!"

"Huh?"

Alfred held his arms up and while not much of his face was visible (Arthur might have gone overboard in bundling him up) what flesh he could see was pink.

He obligingly set the child on his hip.

"I brought this over special." Alfred fished out a small rough bag from his coat. He reached in for odds and ends to decorate the face. "Tex and I...we use a lot of the pieces each year..."

"I see he inherited the family eyebrows." Rectangular magnets were serving the role well.

Alfred giggled hard and nodded.

"Still, he makes a rather stern fellow, are you certain we don't want to give him a smile and soften that countenance…?" Arthur blinked. Wait a tic. Those eyes. Those bright silver ey-those weren't cheap buttons!

"My cufflinks!" He exclaimed—digging them out with his fingers. "Alfred, these are _my_ cufflinks."

And they'd been missing for over two centuries.

"Yeah, they always make good eyes. Tex and I-"

"Nononono. These are _Daddy's_ cufflinks. And they're solid silver." He frowned. "We don't just leave such things in a snowman's face!"

Blue eyes stared through the gap between hood and scarf. "Why not? You didn't want them anymore. You left 'em. You never asked for 'em back. I'm surprised you even recognize them...I'm sure you've got gobs. You gouged out his eyes...put 'em back."

Arthur frowned. Like he'd forget these! These were a special pair Alfred had "helped" Arthur pick out in the early 1700s as his Christmas present to his father.

" _There! Those! You must have them." The toddler's breath fogged the jeweler's case._

" _O must I?"_

" _For Chwissmas."_

" _Perhaps another year, dear." When his finances were steadier._

" _But I want to give you something good!" The child pouted._

" _Aw, but how will you afford me? I seem so expensive." Arthur was touched at the sentiment; but winced at the price. A few handkerchiefs would be far more practical and if Alfred sang one of his adorable songs for him, his holiday would be complete._

 _The toddler frowned hard in concentration "...maybe...a twade?"_

 _Thoroughly amused now, and curious as to what his babe would consider worthy of the cufflinks, Arthur nuzzled their noses. "What will you trade with the merchant?"_

" _...I have a mouse."_

" _Er. Wot?"_

" _I have a mouse. I found him earlier when you were dewivering your papers at the hall." Sure enough he pulled the vermin from his coat's pocket. "He's fwiendly and he wants to be warm."_

" _Good God!"_

 _The clerk was similarly distressed._

" _Daddy, hush, you will fwighten him."_

He ended up buying the cufflinks more as a peace offering to the jeweler for such a scene and its risk of infestation and as they walked home, he and his child had a very thorough conversation about what animal friends Alfred was allowed to keep.

He opened his mouth to scold but...

" _You left 'em behind…"_

 _You left_ _ **me**_ _behind…_

" _Tex and I…"_

 _Texas and I..._

 _We use these castoffs...because we, too, were left behind..._

Arthur's hand tightened around the old gift. "I would very much like them back, please."

Alfred sighed "...kay" and the child dug deeper into his bag and pulled out two wooden buttons. "His eyes aren't gonna be the same size though...now…"

Arthur slipped his cufflinks into a zippable pocket on his sleeve. "In fact, if there are any more items of mine, in your storage. I should like to take a look."

Alfred's mouth twisted a bit as he nodded and then handed over the bag.

When the shock passed, Arthur abruptly sat down in the snow, uncaring of the cold that began seeping into his clothes. He was far too intent on seeing what other treasures Alfred was content to toss around without so much as a mention.

The child moved off his lap, but Arthur snaked an arm around him to keep him close.

Alfred sighed again and leaned into his side.

Arthur found quill nibs, a rusty chain, some more buttons, antique safety pins, a gear, two brooches that would be worth mentioning to Antonio, and…

And...

"Oh!" He felt such a rush of emotion. "O, I thought I lost this." He murmured as he kissed the portrait miniature. "I thought it was gone forever."

Alfred fidgeted. "It...it fell through the floorboards...when, we were renovating the cabin...I found it."

"When did you renovate?" Arthur demanded.

"Um...uh, it was the first time so...70s?"

Arthur nodded. "1970s?"

"Er, no. 1870s."

"...You've had it this whole time!?" He kissed the small circular pendant again and slipped it into his inner pocket and for a moment just held it against his breast.

It was the first painting he'd had commissioned of Alfred. His cherubic toddler against a soft blue background that brought out his eyes. And he'd carried it everywhere until their falling out.

It was such an established piece of his wardrobe, often residing safely in his inner pockets, that by the time he'd discovered it missing...he had to accept that it could've been anywhere on the East Coast. The loss took on a metaphorical meaning and the bitterness it sowed...

"Yes…" He repeated. "I very much need to see what other treasures of mine you still have in your home."

Alfred pushed off against him and marched a few paces in the snow. He began compulsively straightening his coat.

"Alfred?"

"Okay, alright. But…" He pointed a finger. "You can't get mad if they're not in tiptop shape, okay?"

"...alright. That's alright."

Arthur checked his watch. A few minutes more and then they'd head inside for a reprieve. He was taking no chances; the last thing he wanted was for Alfred to fall ill or suffer frostbite. And he desperately wanted another look at the pendant. If it needed touching up, he'd ask Wales to contact a refurbishing artist in Beddgelert.

"Pet, I have my phone. Do you want me to take a picture of you with...what shall we name him?" He looked the snowman over. Yes...there was quite a...discrepancy in eye size now. "Mr. Buttons?" He looked around. "Love?"

Alone.

It was hard pressing down that instinctive squeeze of panic. Children could move out of sight so fast.

"Alfred?"

He heard laughter. He moved toward it and around the blind corner of the house.

Alfred was at the edge of the pond, making silly faces at the Asrai, who was happily making them back beneath the ice.

Arthur released a shuddery breath and approached. It was tough work swallowing down the habitual stern 'Don't run off.' Alfred was a unique case because...he had been allowed free reign to wander wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted, for so very long. And he was such an independent boy, if Arthur came on too strongly...was too authoritarian…it would sound like Arthur wanted him to ask "permission."

When all he wanted, was some kernel of courtesy; a tug on the trouser leg and a pointing hand and a " _Father, I'm going over there. I'll be safe."_

He had to go at it from a different angle; perhaps...make it about feelings instead. Alfred had been more open to that avenue as of late.

"I worried when I didn't see you," Arthur murmured softly.

"Oh…" The child looked at him blankly like he still had trouble reconciling the inverse relationship his vanishing and Arthur's blood pressure had with each other. "I...I came over here. I was wondering about the ice. Can we go ice skating? You said-you-you said at Thanksgiving that-that we could. Could we?"

"Alfred, if you don't enjoy being out of doors in this weather, I can't imagine why you would force yourself-"

"I don't...hate it. I just…" He looked hard at Arthur as if willing him to know the reason without his needing to say it.

"Alfie…"

He didn't need the child to prove his affection by enduring something he disliked.

Alfred crossed his arms. "Can we skate, or not?"

Arthur looked over the frozen body of water and frowned. "I don't know, Sweet. Alistair and I would need to check it over."

He'd ask his brother the next day. He was not quite willing to give this one over to the Scotsman. Once his brother entered the picture, he'd likely find himself pushed to the eaves. The brute could handle cold well and would be able to romp through the snow with more ease and grace than Arthur could manage.

Building snowmen would lose its appeal, when sledding and snowball fighting became options. Because if Alfred was willing to suffer snow for bonding time with Arthur, there was no telling what he'd do to impress Alistair.

"It seems okay."

Arthur choked as he noticed the boy standing on the ice bold as brass! "Alfred!"

To his horror, the child jumped. "See? Nothing."

Arthur sucked in air, squashed down his fear and anger, and gripped the child gently (but firmly) under the armpits and lifted him off.

He set the little one back on the bank beside him.

Alfred pouted. "It's safe! Where do you keep the skates? You've gotta have some. You're, like, prepared for everything!"

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"The ice is solid enough. It is!" He insisted. "It's fine."

Without breaking eye contact, Arthur set one foot down.

CRACK.

And he immediately moved it away.

Big blue eyes widened to the size of saucers. "...oops. My bad."

Arthur sighed. "Please, trust in me or Alistair to tell you when it's safe."

He received a rather subdued, "Yes. I just wanted to play with Door."

"Dŵr?"

"That's what I said."

"Dŵr."

"Do-er?"

Arthur's lips twitched in a smile. "That...that's...a very admirable try."

Before Alfred could try again, Arthur's watch beeped.

"Awww."

"Awww?" Arthur echoed in mock scandal. "I thought you wanted peppermint hot cocoa and ginger snaps and all manner of tooth-rotting delicacies?"

A little mittened hand snatched at his and began tugging him back towards the house.

"Bye Do-er! Dad and I got stuff to do!"

The water sprite waved before descending out of sight.

Arthur shook his head.

"C'mon, Dad! This is the point! You get cold so you can get warmed up with cocoa! It's, like, the best part! And then we can read! And the fireplace! O! And the chair! And c'mon, come ooooon-"

Arthur smiled.

* * *

Alfred watched his father take laps around the library—selecting titles.

"I want the best!" Alfred called out as he sat on the table with his legs swinging excitedly. "I want-I want a pile as tall as me!"

"Doesn't sound too challenging," Arthur called over his shoulder, his green eyes were bright.

Alfred's cheeks puffed. "As tall as I used to be!"

Arthur laughed and continued along. Soon the table was being covered in fairy tales from all over the world. Once they gathered them all, Alfred was determined to carry as many as he could upstairs to the rocking chair and Mr. Gray would bring them the much anticipated cocoa.

"How about _The Enchanted Grouse and the Little Locked Box_?" Arthur asked.

"Yes!"

" _Fatima's Deliverance_?"

"Yes!

"And _The Three Wondrous Fishes_?"

"Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes! All of 'em!"

Arthur laughed and lifted him up for a spin before setting him down.

The quest for stories gave way to a game of chase.

Now this was what holidays were s'posed to be like! His cheeks were starting to ache from grinning.

He almost cornered the man, but Arthur doubled back and hopped over a chair. Maybe it was cuz Dad was usually so dignified, that seeing him break all sorts of house rules in the name of fun just tickled him.

The only bad part was that laughing so hard was getting Alfred out of breath.

Wow, maybe he really did need some kind of exercise regimen.

As the bookshelves whirred past while he ran, the grandfather clock began to ring, and Alfred got gooseflesh.

"Alfred? You won't catch me at that pace!"

He turned and tried to pursue him but...his pulse started to race.

 _There was smoke in the air. People running past. The laughter of unwelcome diners in his hall._

Abruptly, Alfred stopped and stared up at his and Arthur's old painting.

Father...

 _Alfred hung the painting in Father's room. It took him a few attempts to center it correctly upon the wall. He eyed the chandelier hanging in the Master Bedroom. Why, with some lavish drapes, he may yet reach the level of opulence the Empire was growing so accustomed to._

 _Just imagining his father's delight that he managed it, made him smile. He'd deliver the key when next they met._

While he was distracted, his father snuck tickling fingers at his neck.

Only, instead of eliciting giggles, Alfred felt a harsh flash of alarm as the vulnerable spot was touched.

 _He was slammed against the wall by the neck. "Are you? Are you truly?!"_

 _There was no give in the hand's harsh grip. It pressed hard against his adam's apple and made him gag._

And he tripped over his feet and backed up hard into bookshelves—causing a few titles to fall to the floor.

 _Not all of the books landed in the crates and trunks and at this point he no longer cared._

 _He no longer cared._

 _He no longer cared._

 _...no longer cared because..._

"Alfred, dearheart, what's wrong?"

A flash flood of terror swept through him and he turned his face up to look at Arthur and find some kind of relief but—

They may as well have been on the battlefield.

Unbidden a voice echoed in his ears with a dreadful certainty: " _You'll never best him with a sword."_

" _Never…"_

And he'd never needed to before this moment. Because he'd never really thought it could come to pass.

He'd been so certain.

So very certain.

They cursed him for the fool he was.

And there was no pity anywhere to be had.

"I'm doing all that I can..." He mumbled.

" _Are you? Are you truly?!"_

"Alfred? Alfred! Sweet, tell Daddy what's-"

"What more can I...give…?" Alfred asked.

"Alfred?!"

" _These men have given all they had and more..."_

Alfred reached out blindly for something, someone, to catch him.

" _Are yeh sure ya know what yer doin'?" The old man asked from the darkness. He almost sounded afraid, "What yer askin' me for?"_

 _Alfred knew exactly what he was asking. And he knew what he desperately needed: Courage. To follow through. To do what must be done. For his nation. For his people. For himself. And for them too. He'd pay the hideous price and finally be free. They all would._

 _"My soul enters a Winter from which I will not escape. This, I accept. For them all, I submit. For myself, I only ask…that my Heart forgets Spring. Make me forget."_

"Breathe! You must breathe! You must! In, two, three! Out, two, three!"

Breathe?

Ever since the war started, it felt like he'd stopped breathing. That he was waiting for a moment where he could start again.

" _Go to your Father, throw yehself on his mercy. He might be able to shield you from most of it_."

His mercy?

Ha!

His mercy was like his love...it was like all the air in this here room...it was gone. Smoke spiralled out into the night.

Throw yourself on a nonexistent mercy?

Grovel for that which wouldn't be given?

Never.

With every heartbeat the room flickered between where he was and where he had been that fateful night as D.C. burned.

BANG!

And he was falling...falling...falling…

* * *

Read & Review Please! : DDD


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or Netflix. Or Facebook.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Deliberate use of Hermano rather than Hermana for dramatic, comedic effect. More fluff, more drama, and of course, more angst. Texas being Texas. Awkward phone call, Rhys FTW as operator.

 **AN:** : DDD Happy Solar Eclipse! Be careful as you...stare at the sun, this day. Thank you for your reviews, they keep me excited to write this. Hope you enjoy!

 **Chapter 18: Knee Deep In It Now**

* * *

 _Alfred stared dully at Father's room. He had done so much to make it comfortable. He looked over the ornate furnishings, at the overpriced rug, at the polished floor. He briefly rested a hand against his bandaged chest. Even two weeks later, he could scarcely believe…_

 _The wound throbbed._

 _He understood when they fought to repel him from invading Canada's lands but…_

 _On his own soil...and when he'd been so outnumbered…_

 _Had it truly been necessary for Uncle Rhys to…_

 _He touched the healing spot again. Harder this time, as if rebuking the weakened area._

 _He thought of harp melodies and moonlit dances and whimsical stories and palm reading and soothing walks through forests and fields...all amounting to nothing._

 _Blood stained the tips of his white gloved fingers._

 _If being family wasn't enough…_

 _He looked around the room again—his gaze sliding over the trimmings to the crystal chandelier to the flag by the window._

 _His best things. The best his labor and his finances and his hopes could secure. And his best seemed cheap then. His best was nothing compared to villas and manors and castles an ocean away. And what an idiot he'd been to think otherwise._

 _Everything seemed small. Vulgar. Breakable. Arranged. Like he was standing in a crude dollhouse of his own design playing out an afternoon's whimsy._

 _Deluding himself._

 _If being family wasn't enough..._

 _It begat a horrible creeping dread; a realization he wished never to undertake or understand. One that made the future yawn forth like a terrible chasm._

 _One that made his soul tremble and his heart…_

 _His heart...which he'd always cast so much faith in…_

 _Depended on for its steadiness and reveled in its strength…_

 _Faltered…_

 _As it never had before._

"...To me…"

What? America thought distractedly.

"Come back to me."

And where was that?

"Alfred, come back to me... _ **Please**_."

He was given a hard shake and began coughing. It came again and startled him into sucking in a rough breath.

"Good. Come now, breathe again." Came a familiar, stern voice.

He wearily opened his eyes and found himself staring up at the ceiling, cradled in Arthur's arms.

Green eyes were wide with worry and unblinkingly fixed on him and his voice was as hard as his hold was soft.

"Breathe" was the imperious order.

Alfred tried to reassure that the moment had passed and he was okay now but...totally coughed right in his face instead.

Arthur didn't react. "Now in, two, three. Out two, three, good. That's a good lad."

Rhys's face came into view, "I came as soon as I sensed-Is he alright?"

"I've texted Katherine," was Arthur's terse reply.

"Good."

"Do you think you can calm him?" Arthur asked.

"I can try."

"Help him. If you can help him, help him. Please, help. Please-"

"Albion-"

"Anything, if there's anything you can do to-"

Alfred blinked sluggishly; his emotions. His emotions had gotten the better of him. He needed to manage them. He envisioned ice freezing blooms of pain before they could flower.

"No chwb."

Alfred stared up into hazel eyes.

"We're not handling it that way."

Instead, his pains and fears were spread out like puzzle pieces on a floor.

"Do you remember what caused this?"

"...I-I-"

"Shhh. It's alright. Just breathe." And Arthur started counting again.

"-B-b-but-" It was the job of the hero to alleviate panic...not instigate it.

"NO. Your job, your only job right now: is breathing. So breathe." Rhys commanded. "Answer me in here." He tapped his head in demonstration "Or better, answer me. Here." He rested his hand over Alfred's heart.

It was startling when more of Rhys's spirit? Aura? Magic? Settled over him.

Neither warm nor cool...just weight that wrapped around him...and kept him together.

"Why are you nervous?"

He thought of the burning building. The aggressive man who'd choked him. The uncertainty and the chaos and the feeling of being alone to face it all.

"I see. Why are you sad?"

That caught him off guard; and he realized Rhys was picking out the emotions to examine them...like puzzle pieces, like elements of a bouquet, like petri dishes.

That one was hard to explain.

"Try, chwb."

There was the sadness of being at odds with his family…

Of letting them, his people, his government...down...

And it shifted into bitterness at places but then…

There was that feeling at the library….

He shivered; that was something else, something more, something scary.

It was related to the hollow feeling he'd started to get in Father's room but a trillion times worse...charged with...something...

It startled him when Rhys touched his face and brushed away a tear.

"I'm sorry. I would never want you to feel that…"

Blue eyes widened. He knew! He knew what those feelings were! That filled him with hope; this wasn't uncharted territory. Rhys knew it. Maybe it was like magic, maybe if Alfred had their names, he could have power over them!

Rhys took his hand.

He looked at the man expectantly.

"The lesser is Disillusionment. And the other…" His eyebrows drew together. "The other is…"

"S'the...bad one," Alfred whispered helpfully.

Something flitted across his uncle's face before he composed himself and squeezed Alfred's hand. "Yes. Quite right. It's Despair."

Despair?

Despair…

He'd read about it in countless books but it never seemed to last more than half a chapter for protagonists. He'd seen it in the eyes of soldiers who wouldn't march on with the rest of them; who sat and waited for oblivion. He heard it often in conversation because people, especially eloquent ones, bandied it about wantonly. Because it rolled off the tongue so well...

But he was the Hero…

Heroes could be realistic; they could accept when situations called for the ultimate price or when retreat was vital. They could be disappointed or wistful or bitter.

But…

Despair.

They weren't supposed to really feel that one. They could be discouraged. That usually made for a dramatic moment in the storylines of stage plays but...they always had to find their nerve. For the sake of the story and the audience! Otherwise they bowed out of the plot and that was lame.

Still, it was such a surprise revelation; he found himself prodding at it like a child with a stick. Because (terrible as it was) it was something wholly new and that was fascinating.

When his breathing sounded more regular and less...like wheezy rattles of oncoming death, Arthur carried him upstairs.

Stationed in the middle of Arthur's bed, watching Mr. Gray pacing the floor at the foot of it, gave Alfred unpleasant flashbacks to his previous visit.

Only this time, Arthur and Rhys were seated in chairs on either side of the bed.

"I...I'm feeling...better now." He half-lied, because technically, he was. Just not by that much. "You can...call her off."

"Absolutely not," Arthur replied seriously. He gripped the arms of his chair tightly.

Alfred turned on his side to face him and was amazed at how much effort that took. It also made him hella woozy and even shakier.

Arthur reached over and maneuvered him back into his original position (which admittedly was better). But that wasn't what he really wanted.

He seized one of Arthur's his arms, but couldn't muster up a lot of strength; dammit, he had a bad case of jellyfish arms.

Arthur humored him anyway; he moved from sitting in the chair to sitting with him and let Alfred rest his head on his lap.

That was what he was after. He sighed contentedly as Arthur threaded his fingers through his hair. Which probably wasn't too fun to do as, Alfred belatedly realized, he'd suffered a serious cold sweat during the whole incident and was clammy and gross.

He plucked at his shirt.

His father interpreted his need. "Mr. Gray? Could you fetch Alfred a change of clothes from the next room?"

"Of course."

But their tones!

Geez. Like this was a life and death military operation. How seriously they were taking this made him feel embarrassed.

Arthur helped him change into pajamas and kept him from falling flat on his face.

He was just so damn shaky.

He wanted to be upset at it (He was an ace gunfighter, he was supposed to have control!) but Arthur's soothing hands didn't let his ball into fists. And eventually the soft words and ministrations led him down into a doze.

He woke up when something wet landed on his face and he watched with an almost morbid fascination as Arthur's shoulders shook.

Rhys was saying something and Arthur nodded.

Alfred determinedly reached up.

Arthur was understandably bewildered but when he realized what the clumsy hands were trying to do, he kissed the fingers and then set Alfred's hands back down to rest comfortably.

"Shh. Just rest, love."

Alfred frowned.

"Please, just rest." His hands were given a warm squeeze.

Some time later, Mr. Gray brought up a glass of water for Alfred and then...stayed as Katherine arrived to examine him.

He felt lame as he read the small print on her name tag. She was an RN or GP, or whatever they called it here, from a medical center nearby. His episode and whatever ties that bound her to the Kirkland Estate dragged her out here to answer Arthur's emergency call rather than stay with humans who really needed her services.

She checked his pulse, his ears, nose, and throat as she asked, "Another fainting spell?"

"Yes. Along with breathing difficulties," Arthur added from his vigil in the chair beside the bed. He'd moved back there when the woman arrived. "He had one a few months back. I haven't ruled out asthma."

The woman hmm'ed at that, tucked a short strand of brown hair behind her ear, and continued looking Alfred over.

Arthur helped him sit up and the woman pressed a cold stethoscope to Alfred's back.

"Now you had in his file, that he has a history of recurrent pneumonia." She moved the stethoscope to different places. "There could be scarring and sensitivity and he'll have a special susceptibility to the illness for the rest of his li-."

"Yes, I know. I'm…" Arthur swallowed hard. "I'm deeply concerned."

"S-sss'not that," Alfred grumbled. Damn. He was still breathless. But it wasn't the onset of pneumonia.

"Alfred, are you nervous? Your heartbeat's very fast." Katherine asked.

"...y-yes," He admitted.

The scent of smoke and ash still lingered in his nose and his heart still hurt from... and now that Arthur had moved away...he swore he saw flecks of embers.

Arthur's brows furrowed tightly together and he gently pulled at Alfred to get him to lie back down and patted his hand soothingly.

There was something so tragic in the old man's expression that it riled him up.

"D-dude, I...I'm not...dying!" _I'm freaking out, but I'm not dying._

"Of course not!" It was snapped so fiercely it seemed like Arthur wouldn't even allow for the possibility, like swatting a basketball away from the hoop with so much gusto it went sailing out of bounds.

"Is there a tightness in your chest? Any wheezing?" She asked.

"Listen! It's not...physical...All...all of 'em ARE related! What...what Arthur's remembering, and what you helped me with earlier, and what happened now...they're all..."

All the adults leaned in.

"It's whenever I start remembering the sacking...of D.C." Except that now...it was expanding outward to moments leading up to it.

Arthur lips pursed together and he nodded.

She shared a look with the Briton and nodded slowly. "It's likely some manner of stress reaction. PTSD can manifest itself in episodes like—"

"Yeah," Alfred nodded reluctantly. "That's what I'm…" It matched up with website symptoms. "It's the fire...it's...the fire in the library...it's...the bookcases...it's...the bookcases they...remind me of...that's why I seldom decorate with those...that library...Without the hex...I _**have**_ to remember..."

For a brief moment he saw the library around him and the most irrepressible sense of terror and thrill and-and-something-something else-so great and terrible and overwhelming as it crashed over him—

DESPAIR.

He gasped in horror and Arthur's arms snaked around him and the feeling stole away like a shadow.

"Shhh. It's alright. I'm here" was whispered in his ear several times.

To his surprise he'd noticed, Rhys had left his chair as well, and the bed was dipping down with the weight of two adults on either side of him.

Katherine watched him solemnly. "I can get a list of professionals for you to discuss 1812 with and a psychiatrist may be able to prescribe you some medication to-"

"No. I don't wanna talk to _them_!" Alfred hissed—upset that this whole thing was happening to him and he couldn't man up and shake it off.

Arthur laid down on the bed beside him—draping an arm over him. "Who would you like to talk to, Sweet?"

"Nobody! I just wanna remember! I just wanna remember so it'll stop! It's in the way." He could feel it! It was blocking him from something important. "I wanna remember...so I can remember the other stuff...for you."

Because that other stuff...made Arthur happy...

Green eyes widened. "No. Nononono. If it causes you pain, then No. No, I don't want you to-"

Alfred felt more than a little dismayed at the abrupt turnabout; months ago, every little fragment had delighted Arthur. Now he'd gone a greenish gray.

What about all he'd said about sharing the sad stuff, so Arthur could tell him the happy stuff?

"But-I thought...that's….what you wanted for me?" Alfred stated, feeling at a loss.

"I want you to be healthy, safe, and happy. That's all," Arthur stated. "That's all."

Ugh. He was so fickle.

"I don't get it. The hex is gone, right? Why is it...so hard to remember now?"

"The mind tries to protect itself." Katherine supplied. "It might even have reason to keep you away until it deems you ready. Therapy sessions-"

"I SAID NO!" Alfred hissed and his nose wrinkled. "Don't make me repeat myself again!"

The woman's gray eyes widened.

Arthur sighed and then murmured his name.

Embarrassed, overwrought, and not quite willing to take responsibility, Alfred muttered, "...this is your fault…"

Arthur's face wore a ghost of a smile. "How _do_ you figure?"

"You never show me any kind of deference, so your people don't either."

"Aha, is that what I'm supposed to do? Because….? Wot? GDP? Military Strength? Science? Wot?"

Because he was a hero...though Arthur hardly ever acknowledged it...and that was...a huge problem…

Feeling vindictive at the slight, he struck back. "...I want my own room." Where he could throw them all out.

"Do you really?" Arthur arched an eyebrow.

No. He was still uberly creeped out by his misadventures with Grym and what could've happened to him if he hadn't been so close to Arthur during the holiday. The monster would've kidnapped him easy...but…but his pride!

"Y-yes!" He lied and sniffled.

Arthur thumbed a tear away. "Is that because you truly want a separate room, or because you're angry with me right now?"

When nothing intelligent came out of his mouth...heck nothing that could even qualify as English came out...Arthur nodded knowingly. "I see. Katherine, you can leave us for now. I won't subject you to this. You can come back to check on him when he's more agreeable."

Her eyes were on Arthur. "I didn't mean to overstep-"

"You've simply tread on a sensitive nerve."

"Don't speak over me like I'm not here!" Alfred howled.

"Shhhhhh."

"No!"

"Dearheart, please-"

"No!"

The nurse left the room. The butler, however, stayed. And it hurt that he now looked even more concerned, "Sirs?"

"Just a little temper tantrum," Arthur remarked. "He's overtired and distraught."

Alfred was sure his blood was boiling following that dismissive comment. He had half a mind to shove the man off the bed hard enough to send him several feet. But when he moved his arms, Arthur simply intercepted them and used them to pull him into his lap so he could rock him.

Arthur chuckled tiredly, "Don't think I didn't sense that. You naughty thing."

"Don't laugh at me," Dammit his voice cracked and the room blurred.

Arthur sobered. "Never. You're hurting. And I know you're private. She's left. It's simply me, Gray, and Rhys. And I'm certain if you wish it, they-"

"S'not fair."

"Son-"

"No, I mean. I...you changed sides!" He whined. "First, you wanted me to remember and NOW, you don't. You-"

"I want you to remember if YOU want to remember-"

"I wished it! I want things to make sense! I want...I want...the puzzle to click and..."

"I know, Love." He was held tightly.

"Order. If there was...some kind of order or reason..." Even if it hurt...

"Hmm."

Arthur didn't talk for a while after that, just pet Alfred's hair and made soothing sounds. Rhys rubbed his shoulder down to his wrist and back up to his shoulder, again and again.

He lost track of time as he decompressed.

It was kinda...weird...usually a flurry of activity like angry cleaning or visiting a gun range calmed him down. But this...this worked too.

"I lost my temper," Alfred noted miserably. "She probably doesn't like me anymore."

Arthur gave a small smile and shrugged, "I'm certain that isn't so."

"Indeed, Master Alfred."

They both turned to look at Mr. Gray, who didn't quite make eye contact as he declared. "It may be impertinent to suggest this, but I daresay you flatter yourself if you believe that to have been a 'fit of temper' in _**this**_ household."

Arthur's eyebrows twitched and his voice hardened. "Oh?"

Alfred snorted and rubbed his face against his arm. "Thanks. Though...I'm sure you'll agree my vine-tastic display last December has to rank pretty high on your top ten of freakouts-"

To his surprise, they all argued against that—stating that Grym and the UnSeelies were to blame and that Alfred's reaction was understandable.

"You _**were**_ being manipulated," Arthur insisted. What he didn't say, and what Alfred knew now...it just wasn't by him.

Alfred turned to the butler. "Can you give Katherine my apologies? I think I can do the check up now without being a jerk."

The man's face softened. "Of course."

* * *

Arthur ought to draw the boy a bath; a nice bath always helped and a cuppa. But since Alfred didn't like tea, a bath would have to suffice. He'd make sure there was an absurd amount of bubbles and toys and...if he wanted music or candles or squirt guns or whatever…

Afterwards, he'd see to it the boy got his cocoa and stories and whatever else he wanted.

Whatever he wanted…

Just wanted to smother him with affection until all negative feelings were stamped out.

Despair…

Learnt during the War of 1812 and at such a tender age…

Damnation. He swallowed down the lump in his throat.

And then his thoughts circled back and he remembered the fine afternoon they'd had until this point. It was all the more painful for how happy they'd been just before. Arthur couldn't help but wonder if it was some last sputter of the Hex...punishing them for daring to find joy in each other's company.

Except, if what Alfred had said was true, that the library was a trigger, it explained his bizarre method of organizing books into piles; he was keeping his living spaces from resembling the library.

God, it was so awful. He'd seen his boy go pale and then white and then gray.

Thankfully, he'd been close when the child crumpled and he kept him from hitting the hard edge of a chair arm. But then he'd suffered breathing problems which just...frightened England. Returned him to the trenches where New Zealand was suffering from mustard gas and he had to carry him off to safety.

Only for America there was no safe place to bring him. Couldn't separate him from the torment.

Alfred burrowed deeper against his side. "M'okay, now."

If only he could believe that.

Arthur released a long sigh. He needed to be positive. All of the websites he'd frequented throughout the months stated that healing would bring issues to the forefront.

So in the grand scheme, outbursts were...good. It meant he felt safe enough to have them, to start moving forward in his healing to confront what he'd endured.

And Alfred...he'd sounded like a child...reacted like a child…wanted comfort as a child would.

And that was healthy. Far more healthy than many of his reactions this past year when dealing with such things.

It was just...that helplessness...that want of guidance and relief...plunged Arthur's paternal instincts into a frenzy. He hardly dared to leave his side, morbidly certain something terrible would befall him during his absence.

The rest of Katherine's examination went far more smoothly.

While Alfred didn't agree to therapy, he was open to receiving books on the subject. Which was...something. It was definitely something and he'd mouthed a truly grateful, 'Thank you' to Katherine.

When the occupants of the room dispersed (Katherine returned to her clinic, Mr. Gray to his duties, Rhys to...wherever he went), Alfred became more chatty.

Out from under the scrutiny and with his breathing back under control, he babbled away about what shows they ought to watch tonight.

"I need to get you set up with netflix. Netflix, would really…"Alfred chewed at his bottom lip and abruptly changed the subject. "Do I hafta move out, now?"

"Hmm?" To be honest, he hadn't even entertained the idea. "Do you wish to?"

Alfred grew very still and then gave the slightest headshake no.

A sad realization bloomed in his breast. "Did you fear I'd hold you to that?"

The child squirmed a little and then gave the slightest shake yes.

"Of course not. You're always welcome here with me."

The child sagged in relief and then rested his head on Arthur's chest. "I mean, eventually I should probably find a room and stuff. But...right now...I...I like that you're...I mean, if another Grym enters the picture, it makes me feel safer to know...not that I can't handle stuff myself but...I-I like…"

Arthur kissed the top of that wheat blond head.

It could've easily segued into a lesson about the dangers of speaking in anger but...he knew exactly who Alfred inherited that unfortunate trait from. And it was far more important to prove that foolish words could be taken back.

"I'm sorry I hurt your feelings, talking with Katherine without consulting you. It provoked you."

"...I'm sorry...too...I guess, I...I was just trying to make you mad."

"I accept your apology…" And then he frowned. "May I ask why?"

Alfred sighed. "I dunno...sometimes it's just easier to get a handle on myself if...if I'm by myself and then I can just...force myself to get over it. You know? If I could've just cleared the room, maybe I could clear my head."

"Ah."

Small fingers traced seams of the stitching on Arthur's shoulder seam. "It used to work."

Arthur felt his heart contract. Well...it wouldn't anymore.

Alfred flopped backwards onto a pillow. "I...I'm sorry I kinda ruined the day."

"Wot? No."

"We were having fun...and I just...ruined it."

"Not at all. Nothing is ruined. We'll salvage the evening, you'll see."

Alfred gave him a look of disbelief.

They chose to have an easy dinner there, with cheese toasties and soup. They tried several games, but with Alfred wanting to be just underwing...

"This isn't really working, is it?" Alfred mumbled as it was obvious they could both see each other's cards.

The deck was set aside.

He wanted a cuddle; which was perfectly welcome in Arthur's book.

"Despair's a really scary feeling. It felt worse than dying," The child mumbled.

It was very likely it was what he'd felt as the Hex settled over him—cutting him off from from his magic and his memories—destroying his Sight and awareness of the supernatural realm.

Having his soul drawn and quartered...with pieces dragged off into darkness and forgotten.

Arthur shuddered.

"I know, right? That was bad. It was real bad."

Arthur's hold tightened. "I wish you'd have just confronted me. In that hall."

"Yeah...that's kinda looking like...it would've been the smarter thing to do. But it's that Choose Your Own Adventure thing...and I went to page 65."

Arthur's mouth turned downward "...you don't need to make light of it for my sake."

Alfred mulled that over and then admitted, "...I didn't trust you to help me."

Arthur closed his eyes and nodded. "I'm sorry."

And he was...more than the child could ever know.

"Nah, that's on me. I got crazy paranoid."

"No," Arthur argued. "It's on me."

"I was-"

"It's on me." He repeated—his voice cracked.

"Geez. Fine, ya wanna share it? We'll share it. You got your dream journal handy?"

"Huh?"

"Mine's all the way over there." He gestured to the far side of the room. "Yours is here, right? And we're...we're sharing, right? And a vision's kinda like a dream, right?"

Arthur immediately leaned over, opened the drawer of his bedside table and pulled out his journal and pen.

Alfred curled against him and stared at the ceiling with glazed eyes. "Hallways. Rushing people carrying stuff. Library. Books. Putting books in boxes. Smoke. Unwelcome diners in my hall. See them through the crack of the door by the hinges."

Arthur nodded and wrote out the stream of consciousness at furious breakneck speed.

"You. Your brothers. Mathieu. Soldiers. Library. Smoke. The room's catching. Books missing as I pitch them at boxes. They fall to the floor. The grandfather clock chimes. Embers. The room's catching. BANG. The End."

Arthur finished up and blinked hard.

"I remembered some other stuff too."

Arthur braced himself and nodded—determined to help.

"Grabbed me." He gestured at his throat. "He...He..."

Alfred pressed hard against his side and the memory bled into Arthur's consciousness with all it's violence.

The suddenness of being slammed against a wall by the throat. And the heartbreaking reality that for all his rough and tumble youth, and even his battle experience in the Revolution...he'd _**never**_ been treated thus. And never by an ally. America, with all his strength, had frozen and not known what to do. Young, scared, confused, and cowering at the man's spontaneous rage. It happened so fast. They'd been talking. A private word. Taken him aside for a private word. They'd just been talking and suddenly! And the man ended his rant with a cruel upper cut to the teen's gut that left him sinking against the wall.

He was left gasping as he watched the other leave.

He was supposed to be a respectable man...his superior officer…

He was supposed to be trustworthy.

Was he the one in the right? If he told...if he told...would they say he deserved worse?

"I remembered that."

"It's that man," Arthur growled.

"Huh?"

"The one that entered your house with Samuel the Witch-Hater."

Alfred blinked and straightened up. "You're right. That IS him. Dude...who are you? And we didn't even have pictures then...so...I can't just look him up."

"There might be a registry of names though. Perhaps if we went through them-"

"That could work," Alfred nodded. "How old do you think he is? We might be able to streamline our results if-"

It took a lot to govern his temper after such an awful memory.

 _His eyes narrowed and the hand's hold tightened._ " _You'll never best him with a sword. Can't even best a man." The teenager doubled over at the brutal punch._

Arthur's teeth gnashed.

Him?

Him…

 _Him._

It had taken a lot to raise a musket…all those years ago.

And even then, he'd never thought of drawing his sword.

There was something too…

He thought of battles against France, Spain, the Middle East.

Good Lord, he wasn't sure he could even lift a sword in his child's direction for the sake of instructing him.

Even an accidental scratch would…

He thought of the mannequin he'd skewered by mistake and the horror he'd felt seeing the uniform.

BAM!

The doors to his bedroom burst open and he clutched his child close as he reached for the mace behind the headboard of his bed.

"Daddy? S'just Texas."

Arthur fought against the adrenaline pumping through his veins and let the metal weapon drop back down into place.

"What. The. Hell?!" The brunet crossed his arms and his spurs clanged as he moved.

Alfred tried to pull away but Arthur's arm stayed tight around him, anchoring him.

"Can we help you?" England asked coldly.

"Ain't talking to you."

Alfred wriggled.

"Whatever it is, you'll do it from here, where he can rest," Arthur snapped.

"Fine, I need to say my piece." He jerked his head out to the hall as Arthur's cue to leave.

England had been very tolerating as of late. But he wouldn't have this. No. No, he would not.

"Are you telling me to leave? _My_ bedroom, in _**my**_ house?" Arthur asked—his voice low and silky and lethal.

Alfred tried to slip between them.

"I ain't got time to play nice with you-"

"Texas!"

"I've had it up to here, Al! I learned from the butler. From the frickin' butler that you collapsed. Hours ago! What the fuck?! I AM your emergency contact, what the hell is up with you?!"

"I'm sorry. I didn't think-"

"That's plain to see, you-"

"You will lower your voice," Arthur ordered.

"Ohhh, we ain't playin' that your lordship." Brown eyes glared.

"Sounds like I need to level that hubris again."

That made the teenager flush with anger. "Those were lucky shots! Both when I was caught off-guard; once when I was drunk, the other while I was distracted and thought we were allies. Ya goddamned frenemy!"

"You punched him a second time?! Daddy, why?!"

Arthur struggled to explain, "I thought he was part of the plot against you! He was the Confederacy!"

"So you punched him again?!"

"Actually, he tried to knife me," Texas explained.

"OMG, for real? DAD?!"

Arthur faltered. "I...I…"

At a loss of how to explain the frame of mind he'd been in then.

"Alistair and I held him back," Rhys stated from the doorway with a basket full of fairytales from the library. "Now, I believe, from what Antonio said; you did receive an apology."

"Coerced," Tex scoffed. "And wait. How do you know, anyway?"

Rhys set the basket down and pulled out his phone. He fiddled with the device and then handed it over.

"Facebook?" Tex cried. And then he read aloud. " _Status: Proud of myself. Defended mi chiquitín_ …" Texas shook his head as his face flamed. "Lordie. Defended _my_ honor? For real. Dammit Papi, gawd, you're so embarrassing." He began looking more intently at the screen. "He has it on Public. He has it on Public, doesn't he? Cuz he's got no sense! Damn you Papi! Nooo! Awww crap. Of course Venezuela commented on it."

He twitched when the phone rang and he shoved it back at Wales.

Rhys answered it. "Hello. Yes. Yes, he is. I will do that. It's your sister. I'm putting her on speaker phone."

Texas and Alfred flinched with identical looks of distress. "What? NO!"

" _¡Idiota! What did you do?! He won't stop calling me!"_ Mexico shrieked.

"You know he's crazy! It's _**not**_ my fault!" Texas yelled back.

" _What is this even about? This, 'you're not Catholic' business? Of course you're Catholic. You came to Mass with us. We're all Catholic. If_ _ **I**_ _have to do it,_ _ **you**_ _have to do it-"_

"Nuh-uh!"

" _No one is getting out of this. We ALL suffer together-"_

"Nuh uh. Don't even. You're not a real Catholic. You were cracking folks open like eggs for an omelette for the Sun God or somethin.'"

" _...You following my footsteps?"_ Mexico asked sounding amused.

"Hell no. I'm Protestant."

" _Tch. Yeah, I bet that went over well."_

Texas scratched at his chin. "Yeah actually, we...didn't even get to that part." He waited a beat. "Maybe you should tell him."

" _Oho, I'm your secretary now? No me jodas. Cagaste y saltaste-"_

"Oh come on," Texas wheedled. "You _like_ upsetting him. Be the doomsday messenger-"

" _Be a messenger?! Tch...You be a man! Tell him yourself!"_

"You just do it so much better, mi hermano," Texas sneered.

" _...Ugh...¡Qué llorón!"_

"Look, I don't need this. This is why disownment makes the world a better pl-"

" _Dios, you are dumb. Spain is not disowning you! Nobody is saying that. Where are you hearing this? He's just-"_

"NO, _**I**_ have disowned _**HIM**_ ," Texas clarified to the room's collective horror.

Arthur felt his jaw drop. Good God, he needed to contact Antonio.

" _..."_

"Hell, I disowned ALL y'all. Really, why did _**you**_ think I kept under the radar all these years? Cuz I was shy? I was done with you. All of you. I AM done with all of you. Been done."

" _..."_

"Tell Papi _**that**_!" Texas crowed triumphantly.

" _...I will. And you prepare_ _ **yourself**_ _, hermanito. The ten plagues of Egypt will seem like a PICNIC DAY! After the_ _ **WHOLE**_ _family descends on your head!_ _ **AND HAULS YOUR ASS TO THERAPY!**_ "

The phone call ended.

"Whellp. I'm knee deep in it now, Al. Dammit. She just...always riles me up." Tex looked over at Alfred. "We still got that bomb shelter? I might uh...need to...ride this one out."

* * *

Read & Review Please : DDD


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or Hunger Games.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Teensy Hunger Games joke. Family fluff, family drama, family angst...probably.

 **AN:** Thank you for your reviews and your patience! Updating is probably going to be a bit more sporadic as I adapt to my new class schedule (5 classes this time and yeah...Week 1 completed...and I've already had 2 quizzes with a third waiting for me for this weekend XP. What have I gotten myself into? Answer: Madness.)

 **Chapter 19: Gonna Get The Horns**

* * *

Tex huffed a frustrated sigh.

Damn his big fat mouth! Even if it was the truth.

"You're a dead man," Canada observed from the open doorway.

And he'd had an audience to boot, great.

Texas pointed a callused finger. " _ **That**_. Is unhelpful."

"S'okay," Al assured in a clear voice—determination filling his face. "It'll be okay."

 _I have your back,_ was what he really said and immediately Tex felt relief. While Al made a big show of being the one to take charge, he didn't mind being the backup when it came to him. Even when his actions opened a can of worms.

"I imagine Spain will be contacting us soon," Wales commented and checked his watch.

Texas groaned and flopped down on the bed beside his younger brother. As if his father hadn't already been harassing them like a deranged telemarketer _**before**_ his outburst. "T minus 20 min-"

"It'll be okay," Alfred repeated—soft and serious and sincere.

Brown eyes stared into blue; if only they could have a minute or two to themselves, but no one was budging.

Already, Rhys and Arthur were talking with Canada and explaining that an evening class was canned on account of Alfred being out of sorts.

Mathieu nodded dutifully but there was something in the stiff way his shoulders were held back...that...as a betting man, Tex would wager that he was privately pissed off that they were now half a day behind.

The oldies must've sensed it too, because they were quick to say that they had plenty of time to relay their knowledge.

He felt resentment build and what progress he'd made in befriending his Canadian brother to the north began chipping away.

Which was fine; the only person he'd ever really needed...

Using Mathieu's ire as a distraction, he turned to his brother and murmured very, very quietly, "Sorry Boss-man...I...I complicated things for us."

Alfred's tired blue eyes crinkled, "Dude, I think you've set the bar kinda low for yourself if ya think that qualifies against all the stuff in my corner lately."

"Yeah, but"...all that "stuff" was outside the realm of Alfred's control. This...this was just him having trouble putting a sock in it. Sometimes Al was just too nice to him when he screwed up. He never berated him like Mexico did or was somewhere between annoyed and entertained at his ignorance like Spain often was.

Last December, in Spain, Papi had scolded him constantly for not dressing to blend in or researching the tourist landscape and being targeted as a result.

When he wanted to treat the lot of them to dinner but didn't research the restaurant online, Papi gave him an amused smile and ruffled his hair.

" _No, no, heh, mijo. That one's a tourist trap. The menu has no prices so they can charge whatever they want."_ And then there'd been that ol' Gypsy lady with the flower pins that Romano had to chase off. " _Accept nothing from anyone, mijo. I know, I know, you're my sweet little bleeding heart-"_ Which he totally wasn't! He just...felt bad for little old war widows.

And then there'd been the fake police officer that Spain outed...and then intimidated…

Though he'd been considerably less cheerful about that one.

" _You do not go with_ _ **anyone**_ _, Toño! You understand? La policía do not approach you unless you are misbehaving. And they will only ask you for papers. That happens again, you demand to go to your embassy. You say-"_ _Spain broke off and blew out a breath that ruffled his hair. "You know what? No, no. You...you just... you. Stay." Spain maneuvered Texas to his side. "Here."_

" _At your hip?" Texas raised an eyebrow. "Like a little kid?"_

" _El problema estaba resuelto," Spain grinned and draped an arm around him—crushing him into his side._

It was embarrassing and Mexico didn't let him live it down. Worse, she'd snapped a pic and put a heart outline around it and pasted it to Spain's timeline. He'd noticed that part the other night while he was scrolling through Spain's Facebook.

Denmark had "liked" it. Which made him frown; that bastard had been so hesitant about recognizing him during his brief independence—putting Mexico's welfare before his.

Texas kicked his boots off cuz he could tell they were getting on the ol' limey's nerves. The Briton''s gaze kept sliding over to him. Spite tempted him to drag a spur across the fabric, but Al's presence beside him wouldn't allow it be more than a fantasy.

Texas had long ago found that living with a "hero" rubbed off on you. He'd stopped to fix a lot of wagon wheels and (later) flat tires because he knew his baby brother would approve.

Al's lips twitched in a smirk and he quietly whispered, "Thanks. He was itching to complain over that." He then rested his head on Tex's shoulder. "I should've texted you. I'm sorry. My brain blanked."

"Yeah, you should've. These guys, they...they just don't keep me in the loop." He sent a glare to the Kirklands, which went unnoticed.

Alfred tilted his head back to look up at him. "It seems like whenever I start remembering 1812, I lose my head...and my feet. I just keel right over." He went over bits and pieces he remembered and what Rhys thought it meant. "Despair. Dude, how could I have fallen into despair? Me?!"

Texas thought back to fiestas where everyone was feuding and turrón and piñatas became the only reasons he showed up. Holidays that were celebrated by himself and whichever household staff was alive at the time.

No one was on his side. No one in his family thought he was marked for greatness or that there was anything above average about him at all. And he lived half-forgotten on the edge of an overextended empire. Interactions between him and his family diminished and he came to value that silence. It was better. Cold and quiet as it was, it was better.

It was like floating out to sea...gradually losing sight of the mainland...

He looked over at his brother and remembered various bar scene confessions.

It was so friggin' obvious to him what led up to it. Even with the limited knowledge he had of that war. They were two sides to that coin. Al's experience was just a little more...showy than his.

"Of course you did. Your whole family turned against you. Fought you. And you didn't know a home again...until me."

Alfred blinked hard. "Yeah…"

Tejas had spent years flirting with that edge—his friendship with the plucky American nation often being the lifeline that tugged him back.

He remembered the difficult transition from friendship to brotherhood because they'd both been scarred and for a long time the latter's title seemed like an insult.

Tex pulled him in for a hug and held onto him tightly. Alfred pressed in. Good. Now, he just needed to find an opportunity to leave the room.

And then it happened.

America turned in Texas's hold and reached for England's sleeve. The man immediately responded, ending his conversation with Mathieu. He made a big fuss over Al and his brother wriggled to be set loose.

Reluctantly, he let go; because he'd never hold him against his will. But it made him so damn unsure. Did he...did he _**want**_ to be left alone with his...other (coughformercough) family _**more**_?

He started to move back but Alfred's hand clutched at the center of his shirt and his brother looked over with a "Whatcha doing?" expression.

He gave Tex a tug.

Sandwich.

He wanted to be sandwiched between them.

Yeah, Texas was known to initiate "Group Hugs" now and then, but…

"Texxxx," Al whined.

The things he did for his little brother. It surprised him when Arthur didn't object to them all being so mushy-gushy close.

If anything he looked a little amused.

Alfred smiled contentedly and began nodding off.

Arthur pet Alfred's hair fondly before looking over his head to Texas. "You do realize Spain _**will**_ call? And I imagine...will be _displeased_."

Understatement of the century. Ding Ding, we have a winner!

"My plan is that nobody answers nuthin'" Texas replied.

Arthur scoffed and then, after looking at all the corners of the room, looked back at him with...with something in his face. Some feeling Tex couldn't decipher. "Did you really feign death as a means of ultimate estrangement?"

The truth was...a little dumber and more opportunistic than that...but...

"..."

"That's awful," Arthur condemned.

Tex rolled his eyes. "..."

"Spain was heartbroken."

Tex mulled that over. Maybe he was...for two minutes. "He is…"

Arthur went still as he listened.

"He is...not deep." The man was a puddle, not even a pond. "I am certain he was not moved as deeply as you say."

Green eyes went wide and then narrowed as two thick eyebrows came down to roost. "You do your father a grave disservice by thinking such."

Texas toyed with his hat. "Tch. What do you care? I thought you were enemies-"

"Rivals," Arthur corrected. "And it just means I'm a better judge of his character. He isn't clever. I'll agree with you on that. But to insinuate that he is incapable of caring in a meaningful way…" Arthur shook his head. "The moment Italy alerted him to your continued existence, he reached out. He sought you out. Supported you in that wendigo fiasco. Has wanted to reconnect. Does that mean nothing to you?"

Tex glared. "Oho...he helps save the day ONCE."

He and Al had survived an epic saga of adventures to this point. Really, comparing the like was just...stupid. Though the fact that he and Al didn't really broadcast all that, might explain why their fathers still thought of them like little kids. They'd gotten to swoop in last year for a rescue, and thought that was enough to win them back into their good graces.

Arthur frowned. "I'm not saying he hasn't made mistakes. Or that he isn't making them now. But he's...he's-" He struggled. "He's not clever. He's not going to magically deduce the reason you're upset with him. He's straightforward...and he's confrontational. You inherited that. He'll be on his way soon, if he's not on his way now."

It dawned on him then, that Arthur felt... _ **bad**_ for Papi. Here the two of them spent the 16th and 17th Centuries at each other's throats and now-

Now they were teaming up.

Slowly but surely, they were joining forces and working him and Al into a corner.

With them, their government, and the aftermath of Al's downsizing, everything was tightening around them like a noose.

Before he'd been trying to keep them away through force, but maybe he was goin' about this wrong?

He needed to find some slack. And at this point, the only way to get it was to let them move closer.

Tex wasn't a super cunning fellow himself, but he could commit to plans...and he could bluff...even when it risked the possibility of infuriating not only one but TWO ex-empires.

Arthur shook his head gravely. "I think it's terrible that you won't even entertain the thought of how he must've suffered under the shadow of your-"

"I'll talk to him."

Which surprised Arthur and the man moved faster than a prairie fire with a tail wind to grab his laptop. It seemed like Skype was logged into and the computer plonked in Tex's lap before Tex could even manage the breath it would take to go back on his word.

A confused Spain answered, " _Inglate-Mijo! Mijo…"_

They stared at one another.

"She call you?" Tex demanded—already knowing the answer from the man's expression.

" _Yes."_ Spain looked grim. " _Is it true?_ "

It was something that even now some glimmer of hope was shining in those green eyes that it was all a gross exaggeration.

Time to smother that.

"Yeah."

Spain's face darkened. " _I see. If you do not want...to go to Mass...or celebrate Easter with me or...anything...I understand."_

Good Lord, he was acting like he'd abandoned church-going altogether.

" _But do not play 'teléfono' with me...with us. Do not make your hermana the messenger. You have grievances, I understand. You bring them to me, you do not...Please do not take your frustrations out on the family. If you are angry, be angry at me."_

"I AM angry at you," Tex confessed readily.

Spain winced and gave a nod.

Tex fidgeted as an awkward pause stretched out.

Spain gave him a depressed look. " _...disown your family...disown...Why did you say such hurtful things, mijo?"_

Tex huffed and glowered. He had a lifetime of reasons.

Spain let out a frustrated sigh and ran a hand through his unruly hair. " _I understand. You don't want to talk like this. Face to face is best. Of course! I'm just not thinking. It's been...hard to think since—I can come to you or you can come to me or we can meet somewhere. Belgium or Austria would let us-"_

Yup. This was the part he'd been banking on. It was like Arthur had said: Antonio was straightforward...and he could sprint straight into a trap.

"I need time," Tex announced. "Cuz I do."

" _You...are making a list?"_ Antonio guessed—not sounding too enthusiastic at the prospect.

Sure. Like he'd waste the time and effort.

"Mmhmm."

He sighed. " _Alright. You need time-"_

"Yup. Two weeks-"

Green eyes flashed. " _Two days"_ Was Antonio's gruff counter. The darkness in that tone was more familiar. Sure, Papi was trying to pass himself off as a more friendly guy nowadays. But there was the man he knew better. The one he looked forward to sucker-punching.

"Week and a half-"

" _Two days,"_ Antonio argued and then softened. " _...and a half."_

"No sir! I need more time than that."

" _How much could you need to complain about?"_ Spain wondered aloud, sounding genuinely confused. " _You have not been alive long enough to accumulate so many grievanc-"_

"I think our connection's breaking up-"

" _Mi niño...I do not think_ _ **I**_ _would need two weeks to list everything in_ _ **my**_ _life that's been less than perfecto and the 1500s, let me tell you-"_

Time to sell it! Time to drive it home!

"Papi!" He cried aghast. "This ain't about you!"

The Spaniard shut up.

And Al fancied himself the actor out of them.

" _I need time!"_ And now to give it a little melodramatic peppering. It was a gamble. It was a definite risk—Al would've burst out laughing if he'd been awake to hear it. It took a lot of effort, but he made his voice go soft and meek—desperately trying to make it more like Feliciano's tone was naturally and Romano's was when he was truly butthurt over something. Because that worked for them and it might just work for him too. Way better than his real reaction when he was honestly hurt; which tended to be explosive and heated and violent (and he hated Spain for bequeathing that part to him). He murmured pitifully: "No te importa lo que me pase."

" _¡No pueden decirlo, porque no es verdad!"_ Spain argued vehemently—slamming a fist down on his counter.

Texas gave a stony stare. "..."

Antonio's shoulders slowly sagged. " _...have this week...I come get you...and we talk."_

* * *

Alfred paused in the middle of brushing his hair to stare at his brother who was shaving nonchalantly.

They were sharing a sink and mirror because his brother texted him that morning with an urgent 'I'mmagonnaburstifIcan'ttellyounow' Plan.

"You're crazy." Alfred summed up flatly. "You're gonna get the horns."

"It'll work!" Texas insisted triumphantly as he carefully shaved the delicate nose-to-lip space. "We gotta use the melodraaaaama."

"I can't believe this. Dude...you're plannin' on standing him up?! Spain? The battle-ax guy? And getting away with it?!"

"Yup!" Tex replied cheerfully as he toweled off lingering flecks of shaving cream.

"Bro?!"

"And in the chaos, you and me'll pit stop at my place, get our gear and head on over to the next phase of our scheme: Magic Gate Adventure. Tha's a workin' title. You can come up with something better. Anyways, as I see it, we don't have to spend Easter with any of 'em and we'll probably be done by May Day cuz none of 'em will be underfoot. So's we can meet up then and smooth all the ruffled feathers."

"...You're gonna get the horns."

"I am NOT."

"You're messin' with the bull, dude!"

"Oh, he's not a power anymore, Al. He's dehorned. He ain't a threat. And he deserves it."

Alfred wetted his toothbrush under the faucet. "I'll remind you of that, when you're gored."

Tex rolled his eyes. "Besides, he thinks he pulled one over on me. One week. He wants to show up ON Easter. That's his plan. Stubborn burro."

"..."

Tex frowned. "Tell me why you're so against it. I mean, the way I see it. I'm hittin' all the targets. You get a few more magic lessons, we'll glean the most important bits by doubling the Q and A parts and then we'll-"

"Huh?" Alfred was too zealous with the toothpaste and washed his fingers off.

"O...I didn't mention that part yet."

Alfred waited with bated breath. _Dude, I know most of this plan blows, but...dammit I gotta know what else this trainwreck has to offer._

"Go on, Bro." He started brushing his teeth and waited for the finer details of Tex's scheme.

"It's just...I got to thinking how most of our best work, we did out in the field...together. So...so why should magic be different?"

Wait a minute...was he suggesting what he thought he was? His jaw slowly dropped.

"Y'all are only one lesson in, right? So...I could catch up?"

"You...wanna join?"

"If you're alright with that?"

If he was alright with that?! With that?!

"O Texas, Texas, Texas! Do you mean it?" He beamed. Because being a magical duo with his big bro would be epic on a whole new level! Like an action fantasy sitcom! Like a blockbuster summer movie spectacular! "Eeeeeeee!"

"Well, that settles that."

"You're really gonna be a part of it?!" Al asked—with toothpaste dripping out of his mouth and stars shining in his eyes.

"Wild horses couldn't tear me away."

Alfred squealed again in delight and pulled his brother into a hug.

* * *

Arthur sighed and looked over at his eldest brother. Rhys's eyebrows were twitching because of the new addition to their class.

"Dammit Al, I thought you said your worksheets were easy?!" Texas hissed and kicked the leg of Alfred's chair.

"They ARE easy," Alfred insisted between giggles.

Texas read out: " _If one retains equanimity through times of vic-vicissitude, they'll employ the multi-fari-ous nature of magic; perhaps using…_ "

" **Fire messaging** _,_ " Alfred supplied.

"... _When they're in need of aid._ "

"The hell does this mean?" He went on to the next one " _The company of...mend-mend_ -"

"Mendacious," Alfred offered as he drew an awen symbol. He noticed Arthur watching and lifted it up so Arthur could see. He smiled in approval. To be honest, he'd actually been rather reluctant about having Alfred back in class so soon, considering his health scare the previous day.

He approached the desk and oohed appreciatively—taking the moment to card his hand through Alfred's hair affectionately.

Alfred grinned.

Wales seemed particularly pleased that Alfred had chosen that sign for his assignment. It was hard to say who was more interested in Alfred's creative talents when Arthur had let slip that morning, as they set up, that Alfred had been a poet years earlier. His brother's interest was further piqued with the reveal that the song Alfred had sung last December during the UnSeelie invasion was of his own design. Being a bard and harper, Rhys was very attached to lyrical arts. No doubt, he inferred that Alfred (even at his saddest) could never compose lines quite as depressing and morbid as Reilley. Which would make him a joy to collaborate with.

Texas shook his head "... _or pern-ic-ious fae may necess-i-tate absconding? Absconding...absconding?...in short order via a…_ "

" **Natural magic boundary**."

Texas looked over to Wales. "You guys are sick. Twisted. There's not even a word bank!"

Rhys's expression soured. "That would be an insult to Alfred. Perhaps, I should employ puppets for your benefit?"

Arthur massaged the bridge of his nose. This...was...going to be difficult.

"I need like, magical P.E." Texas groused and then blinked. He looked over at Arthur. "Is that a class option?"

Texas was a terrible pupil.

But when he'd tried to gently suggest that Texas might not be suited for the types of lessons that they'd outlined for Alfred and Mathieu, Alfred had stared him down. " _All of us are beginners, right? If Mattie wants to learn magic and that's okay, why can't Texas?"_

The fact of the matter was that both of his boys were substantially more...literate.

He was discreetly trying to text Spain for teaching tips—semi-hopeful that the man would know something about his child's preferred learning habits after informing him that Texas and his brothers were receiving lessons from him.

He received mixed results.

Spain wrote: _He's a good boy. Perfect attendance. Always._

 _ **He doesn't seem to enjoy reading.**_

Which Antonio had shrugged: _He has glasses._ As if that was reason in and of itself for the aversion.

 _Austria has glasses._ England typed back.

He received question marks and the assertion. _He is not Austria._

Antonio was so…frustrating.

He was half-tempted to be horrifyingly frank and writing out: ' _Your son is an idiot'_ but…

He remembered vividly Spain's battle ax resting dangerously near his flesh. And he could only imagine how unstable he was considering Texas's "disownment" of his family. While Arthur and Alfred had suffered an intense estrangement, he couldn't even imagine what he'd done if his child had feigned his death!

Already his mind was playing out horrific scenarios where Alfred didn't turn up after 1812. Just his absence for the decade after, had weighed heavily on his mind and driven him to desperation. He'd held trade agreements hostage until Alfred's government flushed him out of hiding. He should've just visited. Should've traveled incognito and found him out. So much could've been resolved sooner if he'd have come upon him then and tended to him.

He thought of Red's injuries, a reflection of what Alfred had suffered, and knew he'd have done all he could to tenderly nurse him back to health.

He couldn't help but want to believe Spain was similar. If he'd known earlier that Texas was still alive, that he'd have gone to him. That he'd have mended what unraveled.

Arthur sunk back into the fleeting, alternate fantasy where his Alfred was gone. To think of him...being gone...and the fact that they'd had no magical connection then…

If the American government had relayed news then, that Alfred was dead and no new personnification appeared...Arthur would've had to accept it as truth and…

He shuddered and tried desperately not to think of shattering clay bodies, and rundown hotel rooms, and bathtubs and body bags, and mother's feet deteriorating. And his child being lost to him forever and handed off to his mother and the two of them existing away in a world that he couldn't be part of!

He forced in a ragged breath and typed: _Your son is struggling with my worksheets._

 _ **Send them to me, I'll translate them.**_

Arthur blinked. He was more than a little embarrassed that he hadn't even considered that English being his second or possibly third language, or more, could be what was holding him back.

And the fact that Spain picked it up so easily. That England hadn't even bothered to ask the Texan what language he wanted the work in. Or Canada for that matter.

He sent the Spaniard a digital copy of the documents.

Rhys patrolled the front of the room while he asked, "Please support your opinion on why fae are dangerous. Yes, Mathieu?"

"I think what makes fae so treacherous can be sorted into several broad categories," Canada theorized. "Ignorance of fae types; included but not limited to their specialty magic, their temperament, and their associated surroundings could be one. Another would be misunderstanding, as fae possess a different value system than ourselves and trade agreements or gift exchanges can result in very bizarre or dangerous demands. And a possible third, in my limited understanding anyway, would be out and out mischief, vengeance, or contracting."

England nodded—proud that Canada inferred so much. He'd always been such a bright boy. "That is a very wise way to view them."

Mathieu beamed.

"Tch," Tex scoffed. "Don't pat yourself on the back too hard, Johnny Canuck."

Alfred sniggered while Mathieu frowned.

Rhys and Arthur shared an annoyed look.

Good Lord, it was only Texas's first lesson and they already had to make use of one of the room's corners...which didn't really stop his heckling at all.

"If one is being pursued by sinister fae, how can you use your environment to your advantage and protect yourself?" Arthur asked.

"Pepper Spray! It works on everybody!" Tex shouted confidently.

"Use natural boundaries!"

"Please raise your hand."

Alfred sighed and did as asked.

"Yes, Alfred?"

The boy continued where he'd left off. "Streams, rivers, creeks, edges of woodlands or where land is in transition. And sometimes even times of day or manmade structures like bridges."

"Yes," Rhys nodded. "All of those can be utilized to great effect."

"Woooo! Go Al!"

Rhys was about to continue when he noticed Mathieu's hand raised. "Er, yes, Canada?"

"I believe hallowed ground is another safe place. Church bells can also ward off some kinds of fae."

"Very good, Mathieu. The protection of church bells is often forgotten in this era."

"If I may?"

"Go on."

"While I understand the question is framed as being in the moment and needing immediate respite, I'd argue that the best form of protection though...is prevention. Avoiding fairy mounds, favorite haunts, or trees with magical properties are some of the best means of bypassing them."

"Bravo." Arthur nodded vigorously, "Exactly so. And still relevant to my original question; if one IS being pursued, it's best not to stir additional fae onto the warpath by tromping through their habitats."

Rhys was also nodding.

Unfortunately, no sooner had the men congratulated the Canadian for his insights—

"Booooooooo! Hisssssssssssss!"

"Texas!" Arthur growled.

"SSSSSSSSS!"

"HAHAHAHAHA!" Alfred grinned at his brother.

"Seems to me" An welcome voice observed from the doorway, "Yeh just don't have what it takes to keep _their kind_ at attention."

Just who he didn't want to see.

Green eyes flashed. "Bugger off, Scot-"

"Hi Uncle Al!" Alfred waved excitedly. "Um, hi! I mean, good morning? Is it your turn to lecture?"

"Lecture?" Alistair strode in. "Ack, have you poor laddies been stuck at a desk all lesson long?"

"Yup! And my butt's going flat," Alfred informed him.

Arthur and Rhys shared a look. Perhaps...they should incorporate exercising or recesses of some sort? Even just a mild, "stand up and stretch" order at the top of every hour could help.

"Me too! I hate the stool in the corner. It's exactly how I remember it in the 1600s," Tex grumbled and then added. "But smaller. It sucks."

Alistair clasped his hands behind his back and planted his feet."If only there was someone who could teach rambunctious lads what actually matters in a way, tha's actually interesting and-O WAIT! Me."

Both boys perked up.

"Holy crap," Alfred muttered. " _ **You're**_ an option?"

"So now you want them both?" Rhys raised an eyebrow. "Texas has considerably less magical tutelage than either Canada or America. He-"

"Ah, but I know Tex can take a beating."

Rhys and Arthur shared an indignant look. "..."

"Hell yeah, I can!" Tex agreed. "If it can get me outta this room and still teach me magic, I volunteer."

"As tribute," Mathieu completed sardonically.

All the boys snickered appreciatively at that. Or at least until Texas and Alfred remembered their grudge for Mathieu, and glared.

The Canadian sighed.

O dear...brotherly rivalry was in full force...all over.

"Alistair," Arthur growled.

"Aye?"

"What are you doing?" Rhys demanded—finishing the thought.

"Taking pity," The Scotsman grinned.

"Hallelujah!"

"Amen! We're saved!"

* * *

Alfred frowned as Rhys added a scarf to his outfit.

"Uncle Rhyssss," He whined as the man bundled him—tucking the tails of the scarf into Alfred's coat for extra warmth. And yeah, that would probably help him in the long run, but passing inspection was taking for friggin' ever!

The man frowned at him and then straightened Alfred's lapels. "If my negligence resulted in injury or illness for you...that would be…"

The catalyst that spun Arthur out?

"...distressing...for us all."

"Awww, it almost sounds like you care about me," Alfred smiled.

Rhys didn't smile back. "I DO care about you."

Alfred's face heated up. Yeah, he'd started sensing that through lots of nice little things he did, but...to be honest...considering how the rest of the Kirkland family was...he hadn't expected him to come out so bluntly with that.

He shuffled over to the door and opened it and tentatively reached a hand back.

Rhys accepted it and they moved outside.

After Alistair's interruption, Dad had called for a lunch break. And after that, Rhys told him to fetch his snow gear.

"Are you sure about this?" The American asked for the upteenth time. "You don't have to."

"Indeed. Your brother brought up a valuable point. Physical Education in magic _**is**_ important. Particularly, with powers of your nature."

He couldn't help but wonder if that was an obtuse way of saying book smarts didn't matter in his field. So it was okay that he'd nose dived during class.

Mathieu had proven early on that he was ready and raring to kick Alfred's butt at this subject, too.

It wasn't enough to have reigned supreme through their childhood schooling…

No…

He had to take this too...

Jackass.

His brother made a habit to repeatedly engage Rhys and Arthur into deeper debates than anything he'd ever managed. It left him and Tex twiddling their thumbs (having lost the train of the conversation ten minutes earlier).

His teeth gnashed.

Always the goody two shoes over achiever. He'd overheard his brother admit to Arthur that he'd used his worksheets as starting points and did additional research to better understand the subject.

Dammit. Why didn't he think to do that? Especially with the power of the internet at his fingertips?!

"You're upset. Why?"

"Huh?"

"You're upset," Rhys repeated.

"...frustrated," He admitted.

"Why?"

"Lots of reasons."

"Enlighten me."

"I wish I could master my magic faster."

"Master? Hm. It would be arrogance for me to say that I've mastered mine. You'll continue to learn and improve for the rest of your life."

"But that means-means AGES!?"

"Yes."

There was no way in hell he'd survive a classroom setting with Mathieu for the REST OF HIS LIFE!

"Now where do you wish to train?" Rhys asked.

He wasn't sure why, but 'training' just sounded...weird coming from his Welsh uncle.

It shouldn't have. Training was just a more macho, typically calisthenic version of 'learning,' but there was an air of determination about his uncle that was unusual.

Something tougher and more aggressive and take charge than what he was used to. When he commented on it, Rhys seemed offended though.

Alfred hastily tried to clarify. "I just mean...you're...kinda someone who hangs back and gives advice or instructions or... I don't mean that like in a mean way-a-a wallflower way. I just mean, you bypass the chaos or step over it...you realize I'm not gonna be...perfect at this, right at the get-go...right?"

"I realize that. That's our purpose, is it not?"

Alfred had idly remarked to his uncle during lunch while they discussed why Alfred's answer to worksheet problem number 6 was wrong about how he wished he could take Arthur flying.

To his shock, his uncle took it as a request for training and volunteered.

"You don't have to. I'm sure Uncle Al could help me. Or if I paid Reilley, he'd last an hour or-"

That sparked something.

"I think you'll find I am as hearty and stalwart as Alistair in many ventures."

He didn't buy that for a second, because...Rhys was _**never**_ "hearty." Like Uncle Al or even Uncle Reilley. Heck, Arthur could even be considered "hearty" on occasion. But the fact that his usually passively stoic uncle was visibly irritated by the idea that he wasn't...

"Kay...Let's look for somewhere with lots of soft snow-"

Rhys's lips thinned.

"For me!" Alfred blurted. "Cuz I don't wanna get all banged up. Dad would throw a hissy fit. And I don't wanna land bad on my feet cuz...magic casting limbs..."

Rhys relaxed. "Of course. Over there should work nicely."

"Kay I need some warm up time!"

He released a long slow breath watching his air mist in the cold. He focused on that mist, imagined he was like it.

Weightless.

Free.

Impossible to anchor.

He rose several inches and then looked skyward. The gray reminded him of polished steel and he lifted higher. Higher. Higher.

The wind tickled at him and he giggled.

"Wow. You're up in my territory, now. Those Dartmoor Pixies weren't fibbing. You _**are**_ starting to fly."

Alfred gasped and lost his concentration.

With a shout of alarm, Rhys dove and caught him.

"S-sorry," He muttered to his uncle in embarrassment.

"Alfie! I'm so sorry." Flying Mint Bunny lowered until she was hovering just in front of them. "You were doing so good. A natural. I didn't think I'd distract you."

Alfred's cheeks puffed.

"Don't be like that," Mint whined. "I said I was sorry."

"I just...I have to get better. Or I won't ever convince Arthur to fly with me."

"Alby?"

"Ya know, so he can experience it in a non-life-or-death happy way. I mean, he only got to fly with me once and that wasn't leisurely. I want him to know how great it is. That it's-it's good and uplifting and-"

"Wondrous?" Rhys supplied as he rose to his feet and helped Alfred to his.

Alfred colored. "...yeah."

Mint blinked her little eyes in confusion. "Alfie...He's flown before. Faeries and sprites loved taking him around when he was young and even when he was older some would-"

The gears in his head screeched to a halt. "Oh."

So it was already something he'd done...and with those more experienced than himself.

It was so hard...finding avenues Arthur hadn't already explored…

His spirits plummeted, and his face burned. Of course. Of course, why hadn't he thought of it? All that magic all around him for centuries, there was probably nothing that Alfred did that was special to him...

While Rhys and Mint exchanged pleasantries, he took off for a lap around the estate.

Just a minute…

He just needed a minute to get himself back in order. Because he was overreacting. He knew he was overreacting but there was nothing to freeze the feelings back down into something manageable.

And it would've been humiliating to bawl over something so stupid out in the open in front of everybody. Like a snot-nosed little kid.

Flying seemed to come more naturally to him when he had a strong desire to leave. It gradually dawned on him that this was probably how he evaded wendigo and humans that wanted to hurt him when he was small.

With a deep sense of nostalgia or deja vu or something, he found a large tree to hide behind and settled down among its branches. He'd have preferred being with its roots but that would've required digging through the snow.

Safe…

The oak was large and strong and safe.

And he wanted to be close to the trunk.

Several small branches that would've scratched his face as he slid along, moved out of his way.

He'd have said it was the wind but they moved against it for his sake.

He pressed close to the bark and watched the branches move back into place. And when the wind picked up and he shivered, several large branches shifted slightly to block some of it.

He rubbed at his eyes and leaned against the tree—careful not to peel away its bark with careless movements.

"Thank you," He sniffled.

More branches moved to block the icy breeze and shelter him.

He just needed a minute before he flew back.

* * *

Arthur slid a hand along the banister rail with Reilley a few steps behind him—grousing in Gaelic.

The Irishman had begrudgingly approached him with a lesson plan. They descended the stairs in time to find Alistair manhandling Texas. He had the boy by the ear.

"Poor soul," Reilley murmured.

"Look, Aoife and Grey say they've been harassed all morning. It stopped when I told him yeh'd talk at 4." Alistair waited a beat. "It's 4." He pressed his phone against the ear he was holding captive. "Phone now, training after."

Texas glowered but nodded. "Papi, I thought we agreed I needed time. I-Yeah, I know I didn't say we couldn't have contact before then but...Yeah, but...It's kinda implied-I-How can you miss me? We _**just**_ talked last n-"

"So," Reilley looked over at Arthur. "Scot wasn't pulling me leg? Tex tried to disown Spain?"

"I fear so."

"He's coming over, isn't he?"

Arthur released a long sigh. "I think it's unavoidable."

"Well, won't that be something? Anyways, as I was saying." Reilley made a tisking sound and then slapped the back of his hand against a manila folder. "Now tell me again, why I can't just start with rune divin-"

"Because they need to know what the symbols mean-"

"In medias res, is the best way to learn-"

"I emphatically disagree, I-Mint?!"

Mint was suddenly in front of his eyes.

"Hello, there, Minty," Reilley greeted.

"Um, hi, uh, um…"

"What is it? Has something happened?"

If the Courts were at war again, so help him-

"I think I hurt Alfie's feelings," She blurted.

"Wot?"

"I thought he knew that you and Morgana were fri-"

"Why would you bring her up?!" Arthur was convinced that she could ruin any conversation. The tendrils of her were toxic...any bit of her was dangerous.

"I didn't! I just-he thought you'd never gone flying before so I-wait a minute. Does he not know about her?" Her eyes widened. "Or _**you**_?"

* * *

Read & Review Please : DDD


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? Or Facebook?

 **Warning:** Some profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Fluffy angst maybe? A new hybrid?

 **AN:** Thank you for your reviews and your patience! Good Lord! I've already had 8 quizzes and a paper due! O_O And I've got at least three quizzes (and another paper) on the way for this coming week! With readings for all five classes and profs who think... _ **highly**_ of themselves, it makes for a challenging semester. Hope everyone's keeping safe as the weather does what it pleases and happy reading!

 **Chapter 20: Better**

* * *

The victor writes history, Arthur knew that. Had seen it and the way time blurs fact into fiction with editing and splicing. And when it came to that time period, he was perfectly content to let it fade into legend and obscurity—amused by what directors and authors portrayed in their works.

The further from the truth, the better.

Morgan, Morgan Le Fay, Morgana...she'd gone by more names among mortals, goblins, fairies, and trolls until Arthur hexed her; rooted her to Morgan...and even then she'd been cunning...learnt how to corrupt it and go by pieces of it via semi-palindromes and anagrams.

Maybe his hatred of Osha tied into that; she, too, possessed so many. It made them hard to pin down.

Morgan did it on purpose.

He remembered her glinting eyes as she remarked that she did it so no one could have dominion over her. There was no early name that she could be wholly bound to with magic. So Arthur chose her favorite one instead…even with its limitations.

Mint pulled at one of her long ears nervously. "Alby, I just mean...isn't your past part of his origin, too?"

He stiffened. No. Alfred was born long after. He was far removed...safe from the follies of Arthur's early years.

Morgana…

He didn't want to think about her.

Didn't want to think of who he'd been while allies with her.

Mint looked around. "I just mean...you don't have to go into... _ **everything**_. Just the flying part."

Arthur ran a hand through his hair.

He'd been so envious of her ability to fly...first when they'd been young and then...later; what a boon it was for travel, espionage, and battle…

The ruthless, artful way she executed her talents and used them in pursuit of power.

It had flattered her tremendously, being asked to take him places.

While they were bitter, hateful enemies by the end...he couldn't deny that it was she who'd helped him unlock his angel form.

Though, her hand in it...spoiled it for him on many levels and made it difficult to conjure into or sustain.

It was a powerful alternate form to shift to and increased the might of his wand work, but there was always a feeling that he was going against nature when he flew with those wings—so when he did change now...he often remained on his feet.

Alfred's flight was so different. There was something incredibly fledgling and innocent in it.

Like Olivia practicing a song for the first time, like Australia trying a new move on his surfboard, like Wy offering up a canvas for critique...

He left the house with Mint trailing behind him and Reilley calling after him that he was going to grab some shoes before coming out.

Distantly, he noted that Hide and Seek would never play out fairly for Alfred again. He followed his child's signature easily.

He saw Rhys coming from the opposite side of the house struggling through deeper drifts of snow. Arthur would get to the tree first.

He knew immediately from the pristine, unmarked snow that Alfred had flown up into its branches.

Had there been leaves, Alfred would've been hidden from view and he felt a sharp pang for little Roanoke, who'd likely used such a tactic for hiding from monsters both mortal and supernatural.

Roanoke flew away from danger...to escape, to find sanctuary, to find solace in nature…

He remembered the child grasping his hands when Arthur fell from the cliff.

But he'd fly into peril...and risk his everything for a rescue...

He spoke around the lump in his throat, "What's wrong, pet?"

Sad blue eyes peered down at him. "I'll be down in a bit."

Not satisfied with that dodge and being a veteran tree climber, Arthur scaled the trunk easily to be at eye level.

Alfred drew back in alarm. "You…" He looked down to the snow and then back to Arthur and then back and forth once more. "So fast…" And then he looked a little angry as if Arthur had breached some rule.

As Arthur swung a leg over the branch and noted belatedly that even with his tales of questing for apples and honey when he was the boy's age...that Alfred didn't know this about him made his heart twist.

Because something in their bond and Alfred's face dawned with the realization that Arthur had let him win all those tree-climbing races and other such contests when he'd been barely more than a babe.

Arthur sighed; and then Alfred had suddenly been a teenager and Arthur tried so hard to impress on him the importance of gentlemanly conduct, that there'd been no "tree adventures."

And he'd been...so...far from him through much of the 1800s that he never witnessed a chase with young Australia which usually only ended when the little fellow had been treed.

Indignation bloomed in America's face and he scowled heavily and grumbled that Arthur was "sneaky."

"That is untrue."

It wasn't that he'd lied; circumstances just intervened. If Arthur had had his way, they'd have always been together.

"Sometimes it feels like I barely know you at all," The child grumbled bitterly.

A dagger wouldn't have cut him as deeply.

"Alfred!"

It was one stupid skill. Hardly something to get dramatic about. But Alfred had set the tone and Arthur found himself getting increasingly upset in kind.

Because he wasn't a stranger. All the most important things about him were obvious. Who he was, what he stood for, and how deeply he cared...that was all that mattered in the grand scheme.

"..."

"You know me. I'm your father, Kingdom of England, what established and colonized you into being. You were with me as I became Great Britain in 1707 and you were aware when the Kingdom of Ire-"

"That's what I know, but you're more than that!" He snapped. "Aren't you? It's like I know the Dad piece and the Empire piece and that's it."

"I don't understand..." If they were pieces, they were the greatest he had. One when Alfred had loved him best and the other when Arthur had the might to shield him...even after they'd separated. "I'm your father, what else do you need to know me as?"

"Dude! You were a person _**before-**_ "

"But I'm a better person now!"

The wind died down precisely at that moment to make his statement ring. His face grew hot but he would stand by that truth.

Perfect? No...never...but...better...better than he'd ever been as Cadeyrn. As Morgana had known him, what his brothers knew of him, and what Rome and the Nordics and all the wars for power on earth and for the afterlife had tempered him into.

Blue eyes watched him.

 _Blue eyes smiled on him and he felt disapproval that the child's white gown was growing wet where it touched the water. It'd be a nuisance carrying him home and getting soaked himself._

 _He moved forward to lift him out but there was a giggle and the babe went deeper into the small pond._

 _He'd childminded countless times before this. Was a trusted man, a respected leader, often praised for his mildness with little ones in times where men often treated them with less kindness than dogs. But he felt a sharp rebuke rise in his throat, even though he knew to let children have their fun, let them learn and take risks and find consequences, and yet…_

 _This was different._

 _There was no real danger here, the water was barely knee-deep for a man, and yet..._

 _A nervousness that England had only ever known in battle, or in imminent ambush, made him tremble._

 _Because if those bare little feet slipped on those stones…_

 _It conjured visions of Ophelia in the water…_

 _Which wasn't poetic or entertaining anymore._

 _Drowning while flower picking, which had been a delightful subject for painters and philosophers, was a horrible fate that could befall his poor, innocent America if he wandered._

 _Why couldn't he toddle back already? It was clear that he loved being held—often plucking at the elder nation's breeches to plead his case on why he absolutely must be carried, this moment, right away._

" _America…"_

 _The baby tugged at the long stems of the waterlilies, but the flora was resisting._

 _The Colonizer cleared his voice and stated with authority. "Yes, I see your treasures. You can leave them be. I shall admire them better from here. We both can. Come join me."_

 _He reached a hand to help guide the child back so he wouldn't stumble._

 _America succeeded in pulling the flowers free and the sloppy, dirty, dripping bouquet was thrust in England's direction. "For you."_

 _He retracted his hand and tried to smile it off, the way he'd learned to kindly turn down tastes of mud pies over the centuries._

 _Drip._

" _Trying to bribe me, I see. What favor is to be won today, young Master America? Another apple tart? One story more, when I set you to bed?"_

 _Water trickled from the wet petals over little hands and dampened the ruffles at his wrists._

 _The bairn's cheeks puffed with displeasure and he shook his head with a graveness that should've been foreign to his tender age. And it made England's insides hurt to see him thus. He was such a cheerful spirit, like dandelion seeds on the breeze, he wasn't meant to be weighed down. He deserved...he deserved..._

 _A powerful feeling surged in his breast, but he batted it down._

 _Water droplets fell—some from high up on America's hands, others slithered down long winding stems for a softer fall to the pond. But they all fell._

 _The sound seemed to increase and the nation grew uncomfortable; in the moment, in his skin, in this coarse, raw, New World that he wanted to be his or so his rulers told him...despite its many horrors and pitfalls and..._

 _Drip._

" _No?" England forced a laugh—dimly aware that some great doom seemed to be in the air. He cast a glance to the woods. Was it instinct? Were there war parties nearby, ready to strike? He'd had plenty of foreboding dreams as of late and—_

" _ **I wuv you.**_ "

 _Drip._

 _His world ended as the child boldly gave voice to the tenderness between them._

He'd always assumed, from experience, that chapters of your life ended with battles and deaths and losses.

Usually a stroke of luck, allowed those spans to last. And if a gift of absurd value fell into your lap, you laughed at the giver's naivety and put it to use for your own ends.

You weren't supposed to marvel at it.

Weren't supposed to struggle to be worthy of it.

 _That afternoon he'd done all he could to make Alfred's bathwater perfect._

 _Alfred, because he'd long been fond of the name and the king who'd made it great. And a fellow A name would roll nicely with his: Arthur and Alfred Kirkland. Al...Al like Albion too._

 _Yes...he wanted to share all these things with him...things he'd carry with him no matter what happened to them._

 _Blue eyes were watching him. He caressed the little face and tiny chest with the washrag and earned a sleepy smile._

 _When his...colony? Ward? Was clean and dressed and being settled down for a nap, a small hand held tight to the center of his shirt and it may as well have been on his heart itself._

" _Stay wif me...pwease?"_

 _He slowly sank down beside Alfred, aware that he could crush him if he wasn't careful and he'd never really thought about it, let alone agonized about it, until that moment._

 _And hadn't he wanted a child? Longed for one? Before setting that dream into a drawer of his soul and locking it since it wasn't to be? Or so it had seemed?_

 _How could he have never appreciated until now how frail and fragile they were? It made him nervous now._

 _The boy squirmed this way and that and Arthur cursed the lumpy straw bed he'd thought fit for them this morning in the rugged terrain. He'd need to see about procuring a featherbed. Would accept additional paperwork if it meant increasing his purse and earning some comfort...for Alfred..._

 _He frowned at the sharp wooden doll Alfred brought to their bed—given by some thoughtless forest "friend." The crude thing scratched the toddler's face as he embraced it._

 _And the faint red line marring his Alfred's face made the toy worthy of hate._

 _Alfred sighed and just crawled on top of Arthur and curled up—nose buried in the side of the man's neck._

 _The Englishman gently pulled the toy away and set it on the floor—half hoping to crush it under his boots and have it be gone forever when he rose up from their rest._

 _He'd make the child a nice, new toy, a better one. Softer at any rate._

 _Though it probably would never be as soft as the wheat hair he was carding his fingers through._

 _Big blue eyes opened a crack and another adoring smile was bestowed on him before the child nuzzled him and nodded off._

 _Somewhere in the next hour before he fell asleep himself, Arthur accepted that he loved his child back...loved him more…loved him fully, dangerously, pitifully...even though it let fear, like he'd never suffered before, ravage him._

Arthur tried to move closer but no matter which way he leaned twigs poked him in the face.

He glared at one and watched it flex back to hit him again.

"Whoa!" He leaned back.

Gardener Magic...

"S'okay," Alfred patted the tree trunk. "That's Dad, he's okay. Huh? No, it's like...He's uh...well…my...and I'm...his..." He then cupped his hands around his mouth leaned toward the bark and whispered.

The branches moved away obligingly and he was able to slide near his child.

Alfred looked over his shoulder, "Sorry, it's just a little protective-"

"I know." Arthur gave the branch a gentle pat. "I think that's good." And then his lips quirked as he asked, "What did you tell it?"

Alfred's cheek pinked.

He couldn't help his smile now. "I simply want to know if I heard you right?"

"I had to explain it, so a tree could understand!"

Arthur wrapped an arm around him and pulled him to his side. " _ **My**_...sapling."

"Hey! Don't laugh!" Alfred shouted, turning red.

"I'm not laughing. I think it's apt. Now...my tree climbing skills aside...which you find upsetting for reasons unclear...what brings you to this tree?"

"I...I'm not mad that you can...I just mean…I...it's hard cuz I'll think I have something special and then...you go and...and then it's not."

Arthur blinked. "I fear I'm not…"

"I was practicing...flying…"

"Really? In this tree?"

"Er..."Alfred ran a fretful hand through his hair. "I _was_...practicing over there and then...then...I...Mint..."

"I see. So why did you sto-"

"Yeah, Alfie," Mint zoomed up to before them.

Arthur frowned. "Not now, Mint."

"I just don't understand, why you flew off like that."

"Mint."

"Why are you upset? What did I say?"

"Mint!"

"It seems like you're overreacting-"

"You said I wasn't special!" Alfred snapped.

Arthur's blood boiled. " _ **WOT?!"**_

Mint nearly choked. "Heyheyhey, I didn't say that! I didn't say that Albion! I swear!"

Arthur stared and then swallowed down his anger to keep his tone gentle for his child. " _Of course_ , you're special. Of course you are! What could ever make you think otherwise?"

Which apparently was a trigger—the straw what broke his boy's emotional restraint.

What came next was a lot of blubbery half-explanations and whimsical intentions and finger pointing and hurting with loud punctuations of denial on Mint's part.

Reilley whistled as he approached, "Tha's some caterwauling there."

Arthur glared down at the Irishman, "O hush, you!"

He eventually persuaded Alfred to hold onto him as he climbed down because he was growing increasingly paranoid that Alfred would fall out of the tree in his distress.

"And it's not fair. S'not fair." Was whined into his ear. "Cuz you've already done it, and so it doesn't count-"

"Now, now, how could it not count? How could it not be special? When it'll be with you? My Darlingheart?" He fished out a handkerchief. "Now, blow. Come on. That's a good lad."

"Butbutbutbut-"

More near-gibberish escaped and Mint remarked pointblank: "I speak over ten languages and I can't understand any of what he's saying."

"Mint!" He growled.

"Come on, then Minty." Reilley plucked her out of midair. "Let's stand over here, out of swatting range."

Alfred sniffled and leaned back. "Aren't you cold?"

"Hm?"

"You've just got a sweater on."

"You're right, Dr. Alfred. I think hot cocoa is necessary, stat."

He received a wobbly smile and a nod.

"We can continue your practice session afterward," Rhys offered gently.

Alfred wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Sorry, Rhys. I know you came out here all prepared and everything."

"Nono, no sorry needed. We'll be practicing in short bouts anyway, no need to risk hypothermia."

"Kay."

Reilley kept a tight hold of Mint even as she wriggled to be set free. "And we go back in. I get all dressed for being out...and we go back in."

Alfred curled his gloved fingers into Arthur's sweater and pressed his cold nose into Arthur's neck.

"...you're lucky…"

"Hmm?"

"...I worry that I was better before...when I was ' _ **New**_ '...that I was...braver, truer back then…in the 1770s than...now."

Arthur stopped for a moment and then pushed on through the snow. "That's just silly."

"But the way people go on-"

"That's called national mythos darling, we all deal with that. Humans just romanticize certain eras. Smooths the rough edges we experienced. Why my whole Romantic Era! From the poets, you'd think I was out frollicking by streams and flowerbeds doing opium while daydreaming radical thoughts; in reality, my monarchy was facing well-earned criticism due to flagging leadership and ill-timed aggrandizement. I was fighting dangerous notions of French republicanism and then Napoleon! And then there was the industrial revolution, squalid urban areas, monstrous working conditions, and-and-" A burning White House. Arthur flinched but recovered. "Much, much...more."

His son nodded reluctantly.

"I imagine the Wild West and your World Wars are remembered in such a way too?"

Alfred chewed at his lip and nodded.

"Tell me, love, of those time periods...could all your troubles be neatly wrapped up in a 30-minute episode?"

"Huh?"

"You know the sort. Cowboys? Pirates? Knights or witches or officers? Plotlines where nobody ever dies and there's always laugh tracks and theme music? Has any battle of yours been like that?"

"...N-no."

"Is that so terrible?"

"...just when I'm alone…"

And he'd spent such a good deal of time alone…

"Well, it's not. And any time some voice of discontentment starts in on you here-" He tapped the child's forehead. "You tell it, Father, says it's wrong. And that you'll follow it's Hollywood Script when it cuts you a paycheck."

Small arms tightened around his neck and Alfred nodded again.

"Good. Now that we have that settled, will you be wanting marshmallows or whipped cream on your cocoa?"

Alfred perked up. "Either or, or can it be... _ **AND**_?"

"Both!" He replied in mock outrage. "You'd want both? Sugar on more sugar on sugar?"

Alfred's legs kicked gently and he hugged Arthur, "Pleeeeease? I'm distraught...everybody knows sugar cures that."

"Well, I highly disapprove. And I'm certain doctors and dentists would be on my side..."

Alfred batted big blue eyes.

"But I suppose some manner of compromise can be made?"

Alfred brightened.

"An extra helping of broccoli tonight, perhaps? And flossing?"

That killed the puppy dog eyes.

"Maybe-"

"...how about I choose one, and you keep the broccoli?"

Arthur chuckled. "Aww, negotiating at its finest."

* * *

Texas shook the package experimentally before putting it under his arm. To hide the cutesy cactus stickers if nothing else—God, Papi was embarrassing.

What made it worse was imagining his father searching for that crap and telling everyone within earshot why he needed it. Because he had no sense of boundaries and what constituted private life and public life.

He'd gotten a text from Al about cocoa and was on his way to the living room, almost immediately after receiving said mail from Mr. Gray.

"What's that?" Mathieu asked sipping from a mug as he leant against a wall in the hallway.

"Dunno, yet. Feels like a book." Woohoo...not. Books just weren't his thing. That was Al's territory. He tore the brown paper off. "Yup."

He showed it to Mathieu: an English to Spanish College Level Dictionary.

"A...dictionary?" The Canadian blinked.

"Yeah. It's hella embarrassing. I can't believe they wrangled Papi into translating stuff for me." He'd received his next set of worksheets via emails through the Spaniard. If that alone wasn't enough, with its goofy letter heading: 'Papi To The Rescue!' Because NO. The digital copies were riddled with footnotes that popped up in bubbles with things like _Wow, these are tough. Good thing Papi has friends at University faculties, so I ran there today and asked them for you!_ And then others would totally go off on tangents like what happened to him on the way to market or what kind of dogs he'd seen with joggers.

Canada nodded sympathetically. "That worksheet...was difficult. Since you read it out, I asked Rhys about them. Saw a few more."

Tex scratched at his chin. "Yeah?"

"It's...just...crazy...when your seven year old brother is...reading...like that..." The Canadian sounded depressed.

And that tickled Tex enormously. He'd figured out early on that his northern neighboring brother was a true-blue-teacher's pet...and didn't like competition.

"Huh? Oh, Al? Yeah," He smiled—partly out of fondness and mostly out of wickedness. "He's super smart. I remember in the 1840s, when I crashed one of those medical lectures he was at. He was always welcome at those. Ya know? Cuz he was real smart. None o' that putting on airs stuff. He used what he learned out on the field. All those doctors could tell. He could talk to them in their lingo and not just them! Scientists and inventors and stuff."

"That never intimidated you?" Mathieu asked in shock or awe or something.

"Huh?"

"It never bothered you?"

"Uh, well...maybe...for a little while," When they'd just been starting off and he'd gotten a little scared that a genius like Al would get annoyed by a caveman like him.

Mathieu sighed.

Tex frowned. "What? Are you the only one that's allowed to be smart?"

Violet eyes widened. "No! I mean...I just...it'd be easier if…"

"If what?" Tex demanded—squaring himself up for a fight if need be.

"...it never bothered you? That he was smart...that he didn't...need you?"

Tex's hackles rose at that. "He needs me! He needs me a lot!"

Mathieu raised an eyebrow.

"He sucks at mending fences cuz he daydreams and shoeing horses cuz he's afraid of hurting 'em. He always spends too much at the grocery store if I'm not there. He's scared ta death of ghosts. We split chores and I got his back. Always. So he won't be calling me on 'Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?' So what!?"

"What's with all the yelling?" Alistair asked.

"Matt's botherin' me." He brushed past the Scotsman.

Alfred waved from his spot beside Arthur on the couch and patted the cushion. His cocoa long since finished.

"Your mug's on the platter. The whipped cream is...kinda melty now. But you should be able to drink it, no prob."

He smiled. "Looks good."

"Oooh, you got a book!"

Yeah, he'd never get that gleam in his eye for reading.

He watched Al turn the pages and stumble over words in Spanish without any hint of self-consciousness. Tex and...to his surprise, Arthur, corrected certain ones. Which Al took in stride.

Maybe he ought to start trying to teach Al in earnest. He'd offered to learn...years ago...and meet him halfway…

But Tex had waved it off. He'd insisted on their household speaking English exclusively so he'd assimilate quickly. Because he was still angry at Mexico then and wanted to be different than her in every way. So he could speak in a language that would make trade and business easier in his new place in the United States.

And because he'd realized that he and Al were stuck between cultures. He'd noticed one summer spent almost entirely out under a hot sun driving cattle that Al wasn't as white as he'd thought...or as Al had led him to believe. And when he commented on it, his brother got paranoid and shut himself in or covered himself up to stop tanning.

Tex had known himself as "mestizo" from the beginning. And it was never a big deal to Spain or the policies he set in place. It wouldn't affect Tex's ability to hold property or do business or anything like that.

After changing national "hands" as it were, it was made clear that higher wages could be made if he and Al could pass themselves off as being pure "European" descendents. And that was easier if only English came out of their mouths. And even then, folks up in those snowy states looked on Tex's darker coloring with suspicion. He sure as hell couldn't pass for Dutch!

Naturally, it made him spitting mad at the beginning. That he couldn't just be what he was. And in an effort to prove to Al how messed up it all was, he'd made the mistake of taking Al to cantinas near the Rio Grande. Certain that they'd be more accepting of Al, than some of Al's people were of him.

Long story short, it was made violently clear that his "gringo" brother was not welcome there and he'd felt devastated and angry and embarrassed at them, the situation, and himself.

Al closed the book and grinned, "It's neat."

"Yeah, I guess." It probably wouldn't hurt to write a Thank You...for the professors' sakes if they asked. It'd suck if they thought he was a rude brat that didn't appreciate them taking time out of their days...and dealing with Spain.

Tex finished off his drink and set it and the book down on the coffee table. He stretched, leaned back, and draped an arm around Al.

Al looked up at him, smiled enough for his face to dimple, and said, "Taquería."

The Kirklands looked over—befuddled. The remote in Reilley's hand faltered.

They just couldn't speak 'Al' like he did.

He smiled back. "Te quiero."

* * *

Rhys shifted the basket on his arm and frowned. "No Mint, Alfred and I wish to practice without distraction." He shut the door...with her on the other side.

Alfred looked over at him. "Um, that was kinda...not nice."

"I'm being politic," Rhys replied. He straightened his nephew's hat so Alfred's ears wouldn't be frostbitten by the end of the practice, and he wouldn't be besieged by his brother's rage or his own guilt.

"...right."

"It frightened me to see you fall," He commented softly. It angered him to see him upset. He'd hurried over to where he'd sensed his nephew but Arthur arrived sooner. While he was relieved his brother was able to soothe Alfred's insecurities, and the fact that their relationship was healing and improving with every passing day—but the idea should never have even been sown in the first place!

Having known Albion for millennia, Mint was privy to many details of his life, but...that didn't mean she had any right to use them in such a manner. To make Alfred feel ignorant and inferior...especially when it was becoming clear that Alfred was very impressionable. It was cruel.

To his surprise Alfred laughed. "I'm sure it did!"

He looked at the child sharply.

"Self-preservation! I wouldn't want to fly with someone so untested either," He laughed self-deprecatingly. "Reminds me of the airplane prototypes!"

He frowned more heavily. "That is not what upset me."

"Oh...you weren't...teasing…?" Alfred looked away and then back. He eventually murmured, "I'm okay...thanks to you."

Rhys shifted a bit uncomfortably under the gratitude and gestured to his basket of supplies. "I think, we should establish a maximum height for you to fly at until we strengthen your skill. And a length, also. I've brought bright ribbons to mark off two trees for that purpose." He had spools of red, blue, and gold...he'd have used white also but...with the snow...

"Okay."

"Then, we shall do some drills. Notice the bows?" They were leftover poly ribbon bows from Christmas. The metallic shine of them would be bright against the snow even in the dimming light.

"Yes!"

"I will place these on the snow and we will have a form of Simon Says where you swoop down and lift one or more up. This will aid in coordination and-"

"Oooh! Oooh! Hey! Uncle Rhys! Can we play 'Red Light, Green Light' too?! Pleeeease?" Alfred asked—eyes bright.

He tried very hard not to be carried away by that. Made a rule to keep abreast of each year by jotting down significant occurrences, kept stacks of paper as a result to keep him oriented...but it was moments like these where the centuries dividing his memories from his present felt like grains of sand in an hourglass. And three centuries were torn away like tissue paper.

" _O Uncle Wees? Cannot we take bof...um..bo_ _ **th**_ _back?" Motioning to the roses. "For if one is good, two must be best. And Daddy's been away for two whole months! One for each! Pweeeease?"_

" _I do not think the gardener will be pleased to lose prized blooms like these."_

" _O come now!" Alfred wheedled. "Consthpire with me?"_

" _Conspire with you?" He echoed—unable to keep the indulgent smile from his face._

 _The toddler nodded in poorly restrained excitement._

"Of course," He answered softly.

Arthur's pep talk and the cocoa had done considerably well to cheer Alfred up. And if a harmless little game like Red Light Green Light could do more, Rhys would do his part.

The resulting burst of energy (from getting his way in multiple matters) made Alfred a zealous student and a somewhat naughty one too.

He sometimes scooped handfuls of snow and flung the loose bits at him. A good snowball fight might be an excellent means of training him how to dodge. But that was something to work up to later. The last thing he needed was for Scotland and Ireland to go overboard and bruise America physically or spiritually.

Rhys's watch beeped when Alfred had reached an hour. It was proof that his stamina was increasing, but his finesse noticeably lagged as his fatigue peaked.

He held the child's hand as they returned to the house so he didn't lose his way or fall into a hole camouflaged by the snowdrifts.

When he yawned several times in succession, he turned and simply lifted the child into his arms.

"Sorry. I'm just….I'm just...tired."

"No...you did well, you've earned this rest. We can practice more tomorrow."

"Am I making good progress?"

"I am very pleased."

"Do you think I could fly with Arthur before the end of this week?"

"Er." Hazel eyes widened. "Er...I...didn't realize we were working on so tight a schedule."

"It's just…" Alfred bit his lip.

Buzzing at the edge of his magic, Rhys sensed there was something bothering his nephew.

"I'd like to do it before Easter," Alfred sighed.

"Why?"

"Just want to."

Children...they could be so impatient.

"Tomorrow we can practice with some weights."

"Pump some iron! I like it. Heck, just gimme a couple hours. I'll powernap and we can start tonight and-"

"No."

"Butbut-"

"It will be dark and cold and difficult for either of us to see. What if you flew into something and were hurt and I couldn't find you?"

"...you'd find me."

"The answer is still no. There is no need to rush," He took that moment to catch Alfred's eye and give him a stern look.

The child bit his lip and glanced away.

Something…

Something wasn't...right.

Alfred sighed at the darkening sky. "I wish I could pay you back. You're helping me and I don't have _**anything**_ to give you back."

 _They were several feet away from Arthur and judging from his aura and posture, two roses would do him well._

" _Go on," Rhys encouraged the toddler._

" _I dunno. Do you think this one is good?" He held it up high for inspection. "That he'll be pweased with this one?"_

" _I daresay he shall love both equally."_

 _Alfred's face looked pained and he hid the second one behind his back. "I cannot give him the other one."_

 _Rhys's head tilted to the side. After scouring rose bushes for an hour seeking the best of the best (perfect ones that met Alfred's approval) before using his pocketknife, Rhys felt mild irritation. "Why not?"_

" _I changed my mind."_

" _Oh?"_

 _The boy nodded but looked upset._

" _Why?"_

 _He brought the second rose back into view. "This one_ _ **has**_ _to be for you. You quis-questid- quested with me everywhere. It wouldn't be fair if you got nothing."_

" _..." He swallowed, swallowed again, and managed, "Arthur...he has been...gone two months…and you've missed him so-"_

" _Yes, but you've been with me two months. I wish I had four roses…Is one for you and one for him, enough?"_

Rhys cleared his throat and tightened his hold. "Chwb, what makes you think I've gotten nothing?"

* * *

Read & Review Please : DDD


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. _Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. Or the_ Newark Liberty International Airport. Or Harry Potter. Or Aqua Globe. Or Pinterest. Or Facebook. Or _The Haunting of Helena. Or the Terror Trilogy. Or_ Malleus Maleficarum.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). ATC stands for Air Traffic Control. EU referendum. Maltesers, the British (and supposedly superior) version of Milk Duds. Breakfast tea. Because...the U.K. and tea. So much tea. George Washington's false teeth...they weren't wooden: they possessed human teeth that he purchased, ivory, porcelain, and holes for his remaining ones to go through.

 **AN:** Thank you for your patience, yeah...recovering from a sinus infection, school's been having unrealistic expectations—aka- "only class" syndrome, and my dog had to be put down…yeah...Real Life's taking shots below the belt since I last updated. And there's more rough water ahead: an essay, a midterm, a writing assignment all due Monday, Tuesday. And then the next week: Three Midterms and a 16 page Response Log (single spaced). So...I'm thinking there's going to be another long stretch before I can upload again. Wish me luck, I'll need it.

 **Chapter 21: Daddy Issues**

* * *

Alfred tiptoed out of his room and past Arthur's bed. Mint was cuddled up on one pillow with her wings beating gently now and then. His old man was snoring lightly and then coughed.

Alfred froze.

Arthur muttered something that sounded like, "Damn Frog, you make the EU an even greater pain in the arse...just through your breathing…you wanker...I can so hold a referendum, if I want to...and I will..."

Alfred turned the knob and held his breath and carefully closed the door behind him.

He raced through the house to the kiddie room and found Alistair and Reilley clinking their bottles of beer and sniggering in Gaelic.

"I'm here!" he announced.

Reilley offered him a handful from a bag of maltesers.

"Alright, laddie, rules," Alistair insisted.

Alfred chewed some sweets and nodded.

"If I put this in..." He shook the DVD case. "Yeh aren't allowed to go cryin' about it to Arthur later."

"Right."

"Yeh aren't allowed to sneak into my or Eire's bed tonight."

"Kay." Rhys was still an option. Ha! Oversight on their part!

"Yeh aren't allowed to post everywhere on social media that you're watchin' this and we made you and whatever sob story blah blah blah."

Alfred's cheeks puffed. "Fine."

"Alright then."

Tex arrived not much later with a nagging Canada on his heels.

"We have class tomorrow morning," Mathieu admonished the Texan. On seeing Alfred on the couch, his frown deepened and he redoubled his efforts. "Alfred, you're going to stay up, too? Does Arthur know?"

"Yeah, I'm staying up. And no, he doesn't. You gonna sniiiitch? Like always?" Alfred snapped.

Violet eyes widened and he had the audacity to look hurt.

"Easy lads," Alistair mediated. "You," He pointed to Alfred. "Don't be mouthy. You," He moved onto Mathieu. "You disapprove? Get to bed, then."

The Canadian got a little flustered at being shoed away, "I just...I think Rhys said...there's going to be a quiz…"

"And no scolding," Reilley tacked on.

"Get to gettin'!" Tex added as he turned up the volume with the remote.

Mathieu muttered something French (and likely derogatory) before he turned and walked out.

"He's gonna tell," Alfred grumbled.

"No, he's not," Alistair hit 'play.'

"I know him," Alfred pouted.

"He ain't gonna spill all," Reilley refuted.

Tex grinned as he accepted a beer and sat down. "Don't even have to show my military ID. Cuz it's 16 here. Al, we gotta lower it back home."

Alfred looked longingly at the drink in Tex's hand.

"You remember our deal?" Reilley reminded in a sing-song voice.

Alfred sighed and nodded.

He was presented with a soda...that was in a bottle, so he could "clink" with them.

That was the highlight of the night. The rest was...well...

 _The Haunting of Helena_ was way too scary for the likes of him.

He watched from between his fingers. _Darn you, Italian horror...and your gross visceral special effects!_ He thought.

Texas shook his head in exasperation, "Dagnabbit, baseball bat people. Whack that ghosty bit-"

"S'a ghost, ya bampot," Alistair scoffed. "A bat ain't goin' ta help."

Reilley set his beer down. "Holy water could be something-"

Alistair nodded and scratched at his chin. "Now, _he's_ on a better track-"

Reilley stried not to look too pleased at the praise. "Aye well, ya know, I've run into these matters here and again and oof-easy with the squeezin' Alfie. I ain't a tube a' toothpaste!"

Yeah, he was cuddling way too hard into Reilley's side. It was just...he swore he heard something. But he didn't see anything in the darkened hallway, so he turned back to the screen. "Oh my God, noooo."

Reilley snorted and gave him a light squeeze back before a wicked grin crept over him. "You've still got your tooth, right? Arthur mentioned you didn't make the hand off to Fi-"

Alistair lowered his drink. "Huh? Wha's that?"

"Rhys didn't relay it to you? Alfie-boy lost his first tooth at that February meeting."

"I knew he lost it, that damn straw foolery he keeps doing, but…" A dark red eyebrow twitched. "You still have it?"

"...aye, cuz it didnae go so well. Or so's I was led to believe."

Both men turned to him.

Alfred shrugged a shoulder and tried not to flinch as the main characters were harassed on the screen. "Sh-she's scary...looms over you-"

Reilley snorted, "Fifi _loomed_ over you?"

"Rye." Alistair shook his head. "She comes upon yeh in the dark while yer sleepin'-"

"Thank you! It's creepy," Alfred asserted.

"She's soooo wee!" Reilley indicated with his finger and thumb.

"Size means nothing!" Alfred refuted. "The Zuni warrior doll from the _Terror Trilogy_ was-"

Tex smirked and then made stabbing motions while making the doll's warrior cry, "Yi yi yi yi yi...yi!"

"Knock it off, Bro! That thing was hella creepy!"

Tex grinned. "It was admirable. That lil' sucker was this big and yet he wielded a knife so adeptly-"

"Stopitstopitstop-" Alfred gave his brother a sharp nudge with his foot. Then he gasped as he watched the screen where bloody teeth were raining from the ceiling. "Oh. My. God."

Nightmares... Nightmares would come this night for him, he could feel it!

Alistair looked uneasily at the screen and then at Alfred.

"Wot is _this_?!" An angry voice demanded.

Alfred jumped, Texas dropped the remote, and Reilley screamed.

"Hey Arthur," Alistair nodded.

The Briton shuffled into view in slippers and a house robe with his hair even messier than usual.

"What is this?" Arthur snatched up the DVD case and squinted at the back cover. "No. Just-no." He turned the movie off amidst a cacophony of complaints.

Alfred sunk into the cushion with relief. Maybe he'd finish it during the daytime and get a sense of resolution...or just read a summary of it from Wikipedia.

Arthur than arbitrarily put on Season 1 of _My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic_ which cleared the room pretty fast.

Arthur sat down into the rocking chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

He stretched and then looked over to where Alfred was. "Well?"

Before he could think of a more eloquent, subtle way to ask, it was out: "Did Mathieu snitch?"

"Wot?"

Alfred frowned. "It's just...He just...was all...there's a quiz tomorrow and...you should...sleep. But he was snooty about it!"

"And you though he 'snitched' to me and that's why I appeared?" Arthur deduced.

"Yeah, well...I know he likes to be on your good side…and it's double the points if it makes me look like a dope when he does it."

Arthur sighed through his nose."...Alfred, please don't think the worst of your brother. I don't think he's actively plotting against you in his spare moments. Though I don't deny you've been a target of his frustration and I thoroughly disapprove...He's...going through a difficult phase...regarding his own origins. He's discovered the identity of his father and the reality that...Scandinavia is deceased and there's no opportunity to pursue a bond...That's...a-a-a hard hope to put to rest and...I think...our relationship...you and I...it sometimes injures him and-"

Against his will he felt a flash of hurt for his brother before he smothered it. "Well that's not my fault, is it?"

"No," Arthur replied steadily but he sounded annoyed "But a little empathy would serve us well in assuring him that he has a place here with u-"

So Mattie was upset that Alfred had a biological parent and he didn't…

Except...

Mattie had a dad. Two of them that were still alive and kicking! That the loss of a theoretical third, who was more shadow than substance...and he was bellyaching over that!

And the there was the fact that Uncle Rhys…

He remembered how the Welshman always softened whenever his brother's name cropped up.

It just...Just. Pissed. Him. Off. Majorly.

"So?!"

Green eyes flashed. "Petulant thing! Wring some compassion!"

"No, if he can't see how good he's got it, I-"

"Alfred!"

"I know him! He'll do his goody two shoes act and you and Rhys, you'll fawn all over him-"

"Alfred, come here."

"And you're just gonna sit back and watch the encore of Geography Class 2.0 and-"

"Now!"

Alfred angrily stormed over to his father and hoisted himself up on the chair arm to be closer to eye level as he hissed, "Well, I'm not up for it! I'm not playing Cain to his Abel. Tex is jumping ship, and so can I. So can-"

He was wholly unprepared to be gently pulled into the man's arms. The chair rocked steadily.

"You...are in _**no**_ danger. My love for you is in no way determined by your scores on tests or answers to questions. It's not affected by reports of mischief. And it's never diminished when I give love or attention to others. Do you understand?" The last bit was whispered very solemnly. "When I ' _ **fawn'**_ over someone, it's not at your expense. It's not...some inverse relationship where...affection for one means the other...it's not like that." Alfred was held tighter. "God, I wish I could make you...know that...down to your bones I..."

And he wanted to believe that too, but…he buried his face against the soft fabric of the robe. Arthur pet his hair to soothe him.

They watched a few episodes and then retired to bed.

Only dread lurked in every dark corner and the ceiling now seemed a sinister part of the decor.

Arthur appeared in the doorway and yawned, "Alfie...your anxiety won't give me reprieve."

"I can't help it. The movie! I-" He clapped a hand over his own mouth.

Arthur frowned. "The movie? That cinematic drivel? What of it?"

He shook his head. He gave his word. He wouldn't betray the agreement.

Only...his feelings bled into their bond and Arthur guessed: "What? You aren't supposed to talk about it with me?"

"...crying to you…" He admitted very reluctantly.

"Aha, so you aren't supposed to come crying to me, then? Hmm? Well, you didn't. You're not crying and I came to you," Arthur reasoned.

Alfred mulled that over. "Technically…"

"You've violated no part of whatever vow they wrangled from y-"

"Well, I think they meant-"

"But that's what they stated. Literally. You can't be bound to what they implied, only what's stated."

He had a point.

"Sweetling, what is-"

"I'm scared the tooth fairy's gonna eat me!" He blurted.

"..." To his surprise, Arthur burst out laughing. "Wot? What? That's just..absurd. Fifi would never…"

He sat down on the bed beside him. "Love, you did get some look at her, didn't you?" He gestured with his hand. "She's only _this_ big."

* * *

Reilley unscrewed his thermos and looked down at the reddish Breakfast tea. He took a gulp and savored the strong flavor. He then leaned back in his lawn chair. He adjusted his blanket and gave Mint a fond scratch behind the ears.

She stretched and then curled up. "I don't get why you don't just take him to the Seelie Court. They'd love to give him lessons. And he's a wingless flyer, those are always a treat to see. He'll be able to do more tricks once he gets going."

He didn't doubt that, but he couldn't see Arthur lessening his hold on the reins anytime soon, especially given how Alfie's adventure with the UnSeelies went. Plus, the Faerie Courts' entertainment would be the furthest thing from his mind.

Arthur was carrying a thermos of his own as he watched impatiently on the sidelines. After retying his scarf several times, pacing several times, and checking his phone repeatedly, he couldn't contain himself. "Rhys, let me-"

"No." Rhys replied as he set out weights.

"I just think-"

"No." He tied different colored helium balloons to them as part of a color coding system to denote how heavy each weight was.

"I don't understand why you won't let me be more involved," Arthur groused.

Damn, but it was entertaining; Arthur's irritation and Rhys's hard headedness. And while the first was caused by the latter (Arthur always had trouble relinquishing authority in any area he deemed himself more qualified) the latter's thorn of contention was but a few spans away.

Alistair moved aggressively—stretching his arms overhead as he barked out, "Down. Up. Down. Up."

Tex made no complaint as he did press-ups.

Hell, boy hadn't whined a bit when Alistair made him shovel snow and clear an area for them to train in that morning.

Rhys's hazel eyes flickered over to where their Scottish brother was and narrowed.

Reilley was rather impressed; it took a lot to rouse Rhys's sense of competition. Usually, it was archery and only if there was a real braggart on the field in need of humbling. He'd always had such a soft spot for Alistair and the Welshman didn't want to be viewed as a rival, that it was rare for him to go head-to-head with the Scotsman. But there was something in Alfred's sigh of admiration as he watched Alistair do some practice swings with his claymore as he walked...

Aye, that seemed to do the trick.

"Alfred." Rhys didn't look at him as he tied the final balloon.

"Yeah?"

"Our lesson is over here."

"Yeah...I know..."

"Get your blood going. Run there and back. Move!" Alistair boomed.

Texas was off like a shot—bounding through the snow as fast as he could.

Alfred plucked at all the layers he was wearing in comparison to his brother. "Their training is more badass than ours. Isn't it?"

Reilley nodded, couldn't argue with fact.

"Effectiveness is our priority," Rhys countered.

"But-"

"Sweetling, how about some cocoa before you start?" Arthur cut in. "Flying takes calories."

"Cocoa fuel! Okay!" He scrambled over.

"Now, you're certain you want to do this? Right now? Because we can postpone it to the afternoon when the day's a bit warmer," Arthur asked.

"I'm sure." Alfred's voice echoed a bit in the metal thermos.

"Arthur," Rhys muttered tersely. "I believe there are plenty of tasks involving our three remaining Magical Safety Lessons that could benefit from your attention."

"I'm sure there are," Arthur replied airily. "And they'll wait."

Alfred handed the thermos back. "Thanks."

"Of course. I don't want you to freeze out here." Arthur began smoothing the child's coat and repositioning Alfred's ear muffs so they wouldn't fall off.

"Aw duuuude, they get to fight with weapons?!" Alfred cried out indignantly as he watched Alistair set out swords, spears, shields, staffs, and other equipment in a large circle while Tex was running.

"Alfred," Rhys frowned.

"But, but, but, but-"

Intrigued, Reilley turned his sights more fully onto Alistair's training regime.

When Texas returned to their clearing, Alistair instructed him to choose the weapon that felt "right."

"First things, first," Alistair instructed. "Don't think. Feel. One o' these'll stand out. Might not make sense. Don't worry about it. Just choose it."

"Alrighty." The teen walked around inspecting—picking some up and then setting them back down, shaking his head.

When he made his selection, Reilley knew he wasn't the only one whose curiosity was piqued.

The side of Alistair's mouth was twitching up. "Bone knife? ...Interesting."

* * *

Texas watched from the doorway as Alistair assembled a swingset in the ballroom. Tex had helped lay out tarps and cardboard so the floor wouldn't get scratched up.

Ugh. He was sore. And the worst part was, he knew the Scotsman had been pulling his strikes.

After he'd chosen the knife, Alistair matched him with a knife of his own and they sparred.

" _You've got to get familiar with it. And then you gotta trust it. And the fastest way to go about it. Is fightin' where ya gotta rely on it, or else."_

Which made sense and still appealed to Tex over endless stacks of paper. Three hours of training and not a writing assignment in sight. Good trade. Though he'd gotten nagging messages from Spain asking if he needed anything else translated because Papi was going by the market and he could take the long way round and visit a University if need be.

The sound of Alistair cursing as his knees cracked on rising, brought him back to the moment.

Arthur had insisted during lunch that part of Alfred's flying lessons needed to be indoors or Al would be "stricken with illness." And somehow that translated into him ordering Alistair to do the heavy lifting of his plan.

Despite lots of grumbling, Alistair went along.

When Tex flat out asked why, the man shrugged: " _Better I know this thing was made right than worry every time Alfred's on it."_

Which touched Tex more than he liked to let on. He would've offered more help but his arms were still (to quote Al) "Noodle-y." And the next day promised to be even more exhausting than the first.

Alistair claimed that he needed to exhaust him to bring him closer to his "limit."

" _You weren't raised up with magic," Alistair remarked as he hefted a gym bag onto his shoulder._

 _Tex nodded, "I never knew I'd need to-"_

" _Oi Laddie, I don't need a lament. S'fine. Just means that you learnt to handle whatever shit cropped up with your mind and your body. And it became habit. That's what we're gonna work on. It's where the mind and body fails, that's where your magic comes in. That's the starting point. Everything is got by degrees."_

" _Yeah?" Texas wiped his glasses off on his sleeve._

" _Aye."_

" _And I'll be able to use magic, like Al or you?"_

" _Why not? You See easy enough, right?"_

 _Tex blinked._

 _Alistair went on, "You got bad eyesight but you've got great-"_

 _Tex bristled as that dragged up memories of folks doubting his gunmanship or roping on account of his specs._

" _Easy now. I don't mean anything bad by it. I mean that, your eyes had problems. And your magic seeped in. You've got strong Sight."_

" _Yeah but y'all got Sight too and-"_

" _I saw you at the McDonald's. Didn't strike me till later, but...you saw that bodach. Even in the darkness, you saw it. Yeh saw it well."_

" _Well yeah, but the bastard was fast. If I coulda had a gun then…"_

When the swingset was assembled and Alistair was checking the chains, Arthur arrived with linens, quilts, pillows, and cushions. And he began staging them strategically for "falls."

Alistair attached weights to the bottoms of the poles so the whole thing wouldn't flip over.

Once Arthur was satisfied with the project, he called Alfred on his phone. "Come quick, love! Daddy's nearly all set for your next flying lesson in the ballroom."

It was kinda weird. He'd gotten used to Arthur being the rain-on-your-parade-wet-blanket-sort of authority that seeing him so excited was jarring.

Not long after Alfred rushed into the room and looked it all over with delight. Then Reilley. Then Rhys brought in a stereo.

Arthur nodded approvingly. "Yes, good. Thank you. Did you set in the CD I asked?"

"Yes." Rhys answered.

"Good. Set it over there. Right. Alright, poppet. Here's what we'll do."

It turned out that Arthur's big plan was a variation of musical chairs. When the music stopped Alfred had to stop—often mid-swing and high in the air.

Tex watched as a grinning Arthur pushed Alfred on the swing. His brother shrieked with laughter as they played; especially, when Arthur yanked the chains back and used the moment to tickle him.

Rhys and Reilley alternated on who stopped the music. And sometimes the latter lobbed light cushions at Alfred supposedly to train him against "distractions"—though the amount that hit Arthur revealed who was the real target.

"I hate to admit it," Tex sighed as Alistair joined him at the edge of the room. "But the limey had a good idea."

"Aye, he has them now and again. It's what keeps him insufferable."

Sure enough, the man had a smug expression.

Alfred noticed him looking their way then and gave him a zealous wave from where he was hovering in the air.

Tex returned it and tried to shove down the worry rising up in his gut. Cuz Al was only s'posed to look that happy...with him.

* * *

"Tex!" Alfred sped over to him.

"Hey, Al."

Dude, he looked tired.

Alfred was more than a little spent himself considering he'd had morning flying lessons, regular magic lessons, and another flying lesson. But it was the good kind of drained; like he'd had a major workout. Flying was like…swimming in a way—it used your whole body. But it was so awesome! Even the exhaustion was worth it!

"Sooo? Uncle Al trains like Prussia, huh?" He still got shudders when he reminisced too hard about the early years of the Revolution. It was kinda like when he thought too much about Washington's teeth near the end there…with the real ones, and the purchased ones, and the porcelain…NO! Stop! Better to just not…think..about…that…

Tex flopped onto the couch.

Al pulled his brother's boots off. "Otherwise Dad'll-"

"Al?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't wanna hear about Dads right now."

Blue eyes widened.

Tex took his hat off and lobbed it onto the coffee table.

Alfred grabbed the remote and chattered away as he changed channels—trying to keep his spirits afloat. Because…he'd had…such a good time with Father today…and he would've liked to discuss it...to relive it through conversation but...

Something more must've happened with Spain. He'd let his brother bring it up. And in the meantime, he'd set his happiness on a backburner.

It was a real shame though; he'd wanted to ask his brother to help out with his flying lessons the next day because if there was anyone who'd be a good sport as he figured out the logistics of carrying a person while flying, it was Tex.

But now…

Knowing that his brother was in a mood…

And that he just wasn't in a place right now where he could handle parent-bashing, Alfred deliberately went off in the wrong direction: "Are you still sore about that Helena movie? I'll watch it now."

That put a smirk on his brother's face and he pounced on it. "Not gonna wuss out?"

"Nope!"

"You suuuuuure?"

He flushed. "Nuh uh. Bring it!"

Sleep! Ha! He didn't need to sleep tonight! He'd apologize to Dad later.

He set the movie back in and let Tex find the right scene. He then group-texted his uncles. It was more a formality than anything. He fully expected Uncle Al to reply first cuz he needed someone to volunteer as his "plane passenger" for tomorrow and who was more rough and tumble ready than him?

He stared at the message he received.

 _I thought we agreed, that I was your Flight Training Instructor?_

 _Naturally, I'm willing to fly with you._

Thankfully, he recovered enough to write Rhys back: _**Ok, just checking. I didn't know if you wanted to be ATC or onboard. :)**_

Hopefully, the smiley face would deflect any hurt feelings.

And then he marveled at that. Just a few months ago, he'd been dead certain that Rhys was an unreachable ice king. And now...it was looking like...just a careless word could bruise him like a peach.

* * *

Arthur poured himself some tea and looked over to where Alistair was seated.

His brother was flipping through pages of a gramarye; the hag's book from December. Technically, it was Alfred's by right as he was the one who'd dispatched her, but...the child wasn't trained up enough to know that. Which was for the best. The last thing they needed was a child running around with an artifact of possible doom.

It abruptly reminded him of how Alfred had literally done so; with the arrowhead of the Wendigo Summoner trapped in his flesh. He shuddered and tried to push it from his mind.

"Do we have plans for Easter?" Arthur asked—surprising even himself by...being open to input. "Egg-painting is a given, but if Antonio is going to be here…"

"I'm not going to a Catholic Mass," Alistair muttered without looking up.

"I can take him," Reilley offered around a large slice of porter cake.

"Going to leave any for the rest of us?" Rhys raised an eyebrow.

Reilley scrunched his nose at him.

Rhys pulled out a book for note taking. "We'll need to blend a menu for breakfast, lunch, and dinner so there are pleasing options available to everyone."

"O! Before I forget," Reilley swallowed. "Gray needs to bring his grandson tomorrow."

"The troublesome one?" Rhys asked sharply.

"Think so."

"If he doesn't mind himself, he's gettin' a thrashing," Alistair promised.

"Alistair," Arthur frowned.

"We're in Generation Snowflake. The Gentle Touch is why."

"No," Arthur argued. "He is not one of ours, disciplining isn't up to us. In fact, I forbid corporal pun-"

"Now, now. He's older now, I'm sure he...I'm sure…" Reilley trailed off.

"-from this point on."

"I'm sure he's still a pain in the arse," Alistair growled.

"Did Gray mention why the boy needs to come?"

"No. Seemed embarrassed."

Which sent a jolt of concern through Arthur; for all the things his butler had put up with through the years, they could easily survive one day with his grandson at the estate. Right?

Alistair dog eared a page to hold his place and set his book down on the table.

"Please keep that away from where Alfred could find it," Arthur murmured.

Alistair's lips thinned and he looked ready to argue until their eyes met.

Arthur's absolute dread must've shown through because the Scotsman sighed, "Alright."

"Where _**are**_ the boys?" Reilley asked.

"Canada is reviewing a copy of Malleus Maleficarum that I lent him. Texas and Alfred are in the movie room," Rhys answered. "Mint's in the pantry-"

There was a collective groan.

"Eating us out of house and home," he finished.

"She has a weakness for animal cookies," Arthur sighed as he went to collect her before she made herself ill.

The pantry door was open, "Mint!"

The flying bunny dropped the box of cookies. "O-oh, hello?"

"Mint...why are you here? Rather, why are you really here?"

She licked at some crumbs on her paws. "Actually, I'm not here for you."

Arthur stilled for a moment and then glowered. "Alfred is NOT going to a Court for Beltane's Day!"

She moved back. "Eek! That's not why-"

"Oh! S-sorry," He shifted a little guiltily as he calmed down.

"I'm here to ask when he plans to pursue the Gate Opening. Think they wanted to give him some kind of map or something."

Arthur stiffened, "He doesn't have the training for such a feat, yet. Just because he agreed to aid them doesn't mean he intends it right away."

The strain would be horrific for someone so inexperienced. It was a shock he'd managed something like that once. It'd be a tempting of fate to go solo once more. No, he'd need his family there with him. It wouldn't hurt to invite Norway and Romania as well when the time neared.

"Both courts know that, that's why they're offering resources to speed up the process."

"Hmmph."

"No strings!" Mint insisted.

"Riiight." That never happened. Fae were petty and greedy by nature.

"They seem to think he'll need them...and to borrow a royal signet. They didn't say why."

Arthur frowned and raised an eyebrow.

"I don't know, Alby. The Seelie Queen seemed kinda embarrassed and nervous though. And she really wants to meet Alfred to 'prepare him' whatever that means."

Arthur thought back to the shrine the UnSeelies had made for his son. Were the Seelies as creepily fond as well? "I'm sure she does. Everyone seems to-"

"No...not everyone. The Three want nothing to do with him."

England was surprised to hear that. Sure the old girls were never that hospitable but...they'd answered questions for him now and again through the ages.

Curiosity got the better of him. "Why?"

"They say he's dangerous."

"Pfft. Dangerous, we're _all dangerous_. Nations-"

"They don't want you to reveal their cave to him. I was asked by the Queen to relay that."

A flash of hurt and indignation made his face burn. He gritted his teeth. "Fine."

"Don't be like that. They've no quarrel with you! They just want him to stay away."

"Was there anything _**else**_?" He asked—aware that his tone had darkened but his anger on behalf of the snub to his child was too great for him to recover his composure.

"Ummmm….well? I think Old Man Lome's still hoping for you to forgive him his part in 18-"

"Ha! You _**must**_ be joking."

"Oooookay, I'll tell him you still need more time. Maybe a millennia. Maybe three."

Before they could speak more on the subject, Texas and Alfred appeared.

The former was giving the latter a piggyback ride, though—

"Dammit Al, you're holding too tight!"

"That was horrible. It was horrible. Horrible!"

"Don't be a big baby."

"Horrible...she's gonna eat me! She's gonna eat me!"

Arthur's face soured. "Alfred, did you finish that movie?"

His son's expression betrayed him.

"Alfred!?"

The child stuck his arms out and reached for him. "Don't let the monsters get me."

Arthur sighed as he walked over.

"You," He pulled the child into his arms. "You…"

"I know, I know." Alfred rested his face near Arthur's ear and whispered. "Tex is crabby. I had to do something."

He looked over to where the lad was irritably checking bags of crisps and muttering, "Baked? Baked...nobody likes baked."

"I see." He lowered his voice. "Do you think you'll be alright, tonight?"

"No," the child answered miserably. "But I had to try. It's bad enough Mattie's having 'Daddy Issues' I don't wanna lose Tex too. It's like it's contagious. And I'm the only one that's immune."

That brought a soft smile to Arthur's face and he nuzzled their noses. It was a relief to know that they'd come so far in the past few months. He was also pleased that his words last night had sunk in to some extent and that Alfred's jealousy was laid to rest...at least for the moment.

He'd worked hard this day to try and show Alfred that he valued the boy's flying just as much as he valued Mathieu's knowledge. Both were great talents. Both made him proud. His next task would be to see to it that Mathieu understood that as well. There were several times during their mid morning lesson where the Canadian had seemed ready to goad the young American. England needed to put his foot down hard on that.

"Dad?"

"Yes, Sweet?"

"Did you have a Dad?"

"Err...um...er...no...but…Mother..."

"And that's why skirts and stockings were such a thing on your side of the family!" Tex crowed.

"Wot? Spain wore hose, if he's claimed otherwise, it's a falsehood-"

"It's a kilt!" Alistair sniped as he passed through the kitchen—hunting for a snack.

"Man-skirt," Tex grumbled.

"I will box yer ears."

Arthur glared at the threat.

"Do it," Alfred grinned. "I dare you."

"Alfred?!"

"You are asking for it,too, Laddie! I got two hands, I can do a double."

"I'll wax your leg while you sleep."

"Like I'd sleep through that without noticing."

Alfred blinked as if he hadn't considered that.

"Numpty," Alistair chuckled affectionately.

"It'd work if you were Tex, he could sleep through it."

"Al?! Don't give him ideas!"

"Sorry! Take backsies! I-hey!" Alfred perked up. "What book is that?"

His elder brother blanched and his hold on the gramarye tightened.

Arthur seethed as he noticed it.

"Haggis cookbook," Alistair answered.

Alfred choked, "My soul shrivels to know that there's that many recipes."

"Ack, well, I wouldn't expect a Yank to appreciate the finer regional differences."

Alistair ducked out of the room pretty quickly after that and Arthur received a text: _Sorry._

Arthur stared at the word until Alfred's wriggling brought him to. The two boys chattered about the movie and he gave them a half-hearted scolding. He set Alfred down and followed as the boys went to choose a board game.

... _Sorry…_

It almost haunted him because...because...when was Alistair ever sorry for anything?

* * *

Read, Review, Relax : D


	22. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer:** _I do not own Hetalia. Or the song: White Rabbit. Or Pokemon. Or The Fisherman of Shetland._

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Welsh phrase: chopsing: arguing. Yet more familial angst and drama.

 **AN:** Thank you for your interest, your reviews, and your patience. Good God, I've been through an academic meat grinder. O_o But here it is, at last! Chapter 22! And in it a shout out part to Marzue, whose reviews in Chapter 15 tickled me so much, it inspired me...you'll know where.

Happy Reading! You've waited for it! : DD And we'll see when I can update again. So. Much. Homework. The absurdity...

 **Chapter 22: Out Of View**

* * *

Alfred tongued the socket of his missing tooth—the metallic taste of gum had faded and he could already feel something solid underneath. His smile would be repaired soon enough, which was a relief; he'd felt, since he lost his tooth, like it just wasn't as effective as it used to be.

Blue eyes flitted over to the young teen at the table in the kitchen. So this was Mr. Gray's grandson? What a letdown.

Alfred gave Arthur a sidelong glance and shook his head slowly. "Fourteen and a sourpuss."

"Hush now," Arthur replied as he moved past Alfred and greeted the boy.

Alfred trailed behind him because...manners. Otherwise, he'd get a scolding about skulking in doorways.

He stood, feet apart, back straight, head up. And he stayed one step behind, at Arthur's elbow.

Arthur seemed to appreciate it. He smiled warmly as he motioned him forward. "Wynn, this is my son, Alfred."

The American grinned and reached out for a handshake. Instead, he was treated to an obligatory nod and a brief, indolent, stare as the boy played on his phone.

He had dark brown hair and super pale skin...probably because he was always tucked away with a screen somewhere. He was at that awkward fourteen-ish spot where height ruled over breadth.

A strained conversation ensued where Arthur asked politely about how "Year 9" was going and what were his favorite subjects and hobbies and Alfred plastered the inane smile he'd perfected in business transactions over the centuries and pretended he was fascinated with the teen's answers.

He stifled a yawn. He'd already done a few flying exercises early that morning...and he'd only dropped Rhys once. And that was just because a bird had startled him. Thankfully, the whole episode amused Rhys and he didn't seem to be holding a grudge.

Before Mint took off for...wherever flying bunnies go in their spare time...she'd relayed that the Seelies wanted to help him with his Gate endeavors. Only Arthur had stopped mid-waffle and had gone so green around the gills that Alfred just gave noncommittal "Oh's" and "I'll think about it's" to her, which calmed Arthur down. Later his old man warned him very seriously that any help a fae gave came with conditions.

Yeah, like he hadn't already learned that the hard way.

Besides, the way Alfred figured it, he'd already closed the Gate all by himself in 1814. He could probably reopen it alone too. He blinked. He knew...just like that...he knew beyond a doubt that he'd shut it in August 1814 just days before his death.

Of course he could do it. That gave his confidence a well-needed boost, lately the whole magic thing was seeming harder and harder. While they weren't exactly straight-up grading him...seeing his responses and sheets come back pockmarked with pen corrections…

He wasn't doing as well as he should've been and Mathieu's cleaner papers vexed him.

When they finally left the room, Arthur sighed, "I worry for him. I can sense he has potential though for what..."

Alfred stared. Wait, what?

Arthur smiled kindly, "As you get older, you'll pick up on that too. Sometimes, it comes to fruition. Other times, it does not. Which I'll tell you, when you have a monarchy and someone doesn't live up to expectation, it can be the most frustrating—"

"What's it feel like?"

"It's...a knowing. That's...the best way I can explain it. You just know there's something about them…"

"And then you play favorites?" Alfred raised an eyebrow. That would explain a lot.

"W-well, not precisely."

Alfred frowned, "I think everybody's got greatness. In their own way."

Arthur smiled. "Of course, love. Now, Wynn is supposed to be with us for the next few days while things...settle for him. He's been having difficulties at home."

Before he could stop himself, Alfred muttered out of the corner of his mouth, "With such charm and wit, I can hardly imagine why."

Arthur set a hand on Alfred's shoulder. "That's enough. Wynn's had a hard time of it since his f-"

Alfred frowned at the hand. "I always get the heavy hand on the shoulder."

"Hmm?"

"I, like, hardly ever get the gentle squeeze." Canada, and Australia, and New Zealand all got it. All the time. He'd seen. At Christmas!

Arthur humored him.

Alfred's cheeks puffed. "You can't do them simultaneously! There's rules!"

Arthur smirked and pulled him close while ruffling his hair.

He tried to enjoy it...this feeling of closeness...this warmth...

Tex had told him that morning to write out a list of magic questions. Cuz they were " _gettin' into do or die time"_ and were leaving early on Friday, and if they didn't glean anything by then they'd have to wing it.

Today...and tomorrow...was all he had left...and then _Mission: Call-the-Locksmith_ would commence.

It'd be a good opportunity to test his powers...to get back into the groove of solving problems for himself or with Tex but…

He pressed into Arthur's leg as they walked—knowing a hand would card through his hair. It did—brushing by his ear gently.

He had to soak it all up. Now. Because after Friday, Arthur would probably be angry and disappointed in him and-

Reluctance swamped him.

No. He steeled himself. This was happening. Their mission was happening.

He couldn't make Tex get along with Spain.

He knew that.

Even though...Spain was more than willing to give it all a shot and he and Tex had a hell of a lot in common. Not that he could ever in a million years tell his brother that.

Which was irritating because Tex kept pointing out similarities between him and England. (It didn't help that a lot of them were the more annoying qualities—like being bossy, or OCD when it came to locking things up, or being know-it-alls about subjects they were well-versed in, or being the killjoy who told Texas to get his feet off things.)

It took a lot to swallow down his own observations and not bark back that Tex was loud and cheery or loud and angry and never beat around the bush. Like Spain. He liked music and food and could be insensitive even when he was trying to be nice. Like Spain. He liked what he liked and he hated…

He hated...what...and...who...he hated…

 _Brown eyes narrowed and he tipped back his drink before slamming the empty glass back on the bar. "I confronted him! I confronted him and it took him a minute before he could even remember me…before he even...el cabrón..."_

 _Alfred nodded and drained his own glass; he had the opposite problem...his father never forgot..._

He looked around the hallway that was growing more homey each time he passed through it. Did he want to stay?

Yes.

Did it matter?

No.

Because he'd made a promise to the UnSeelie King that he'd deal with the Gate thing that...he was kinda responsible for in the first place.

And more importantly...Tex wanted to go. And that alone was enough.

His brother had put up with a lot for him lately. So if he wanted to go...they'd go…

He owed him that.

He looked up at Arthur, who smiled for him.

Even though it was childish and stupid and embarrassing…

He raised his arms and scrunched his fingers in a _carry me_ signal.

Arthur blinked and then smiled and obliged.

It was all the little things. The well worn sweater vest Arthur was wearing with the little fluffs of fuzz that were starting to escape. The sturdy feel of the man's collarbone under Alfred's cheek. The way Arthur sang a sea shanty under his breath as he climbed stairs and hummed the naughty words out in a self-censoring manner.

Alfred tightened his arms around his father's neck.

"Sweetling, if you're not up for lessons, you don't need to-"

"I'm good! I'm fine!" Because he didn't want to waste what time was left!

Arthur sighed and paused in the hallway. "Alfred, I'm serious. These past few days, we've had you on a rigorous flying regime. A right gauntlet. That's taxing. If you need time to recover, I want you to tell me. We can record the less-"

"Dude, it's a lecture day. It _**is**_ a reprieve."

Or it was s'posed to be.

Except Reilley's Rune Lesson was super hands-on and hard and none of the markings made sense to him and he wasn't any good at any of it. And this was how he was gonna go out...sucking. He was going to leave this place on a sour note.

Meanwhile—

"Tha's great Mattie-boy!" Reilley ruffled Mathieu's hair. "Just like that-"

Mathieu smiled and cast his runes again.

Arthur nodded approvingly and gave Mathieu's shoulder the much sought for I'm-proud-of-you squeeze.

Blue eyes narrowed. Of course. _He'd_ be good at this. It just figured.

Just friggin' perfect.

Arthur came over to his desk. "What's wrong?"

He bit his bottom lip and shook his head.

Arthur pulled a chair up beside him. "Tell me."

"...I'm...no good at this," he confessed quietly.

First Numerology, and now this too.

Arthur's arm went around him and settled on the back of Alfred's child-sized chair. "That's alright."

Alfred picked up his rune stones and then let them slide off his palm to clatter on the desktop...and they still said gibberish. "I just don't feel anything. He said I was s'posed to feel a warmth. That my fingers would tingle...I didn't feel anything. I just..."

"Alfred, it's alright," Arthur assured.

"...I feel like I'm letting you down…"

"Dearheart, I've never been more proud," Arthur replied.

"Well yeah," he muttered "Mattie over there is a pro-"

"Of you," Arthur finished.

"Riiight. Fail harder? O, I'm on it," he grumbled.

"I'm perfectly serious. I am proud of you."

"Of what?" he asked flatly.

"You're being honest."

Which hurt, because the hero never liked anyone insinuating him to be a liar. Didn't like to think of Arthur thinking of him that way. And even though Arthur tried to clarify what he meant when Alfred grew more upset, the hit had landed.

Because it was a special fear of his...one that he kept close and tucked away...that he was nowhere near as sincere as he'd once been. That his spirit didn't shine like it used to...that it was getting tarnished...and he'd never be able to buff it back out.

Lunch didn't go much better; not with Mathieu and Texas swapping lesson successes and Wynn scoffing that Pokemon video games were dumb, and no, he didn't play them. Which made his soul weep.

His uncles were griping about a referendum and nobody wanted to play checkers with him as they finished up. Alistair and Tex were heading back outside. Arthur and Mathieu had to talk to their counselors. Reilley and Rhys were still talking politics.

Later they'd play a round with him.

Everyone said later…

Later...like he had later...

Alfred stared out the window.

Two days left...

He looked longingly over at the frozen pond.

Reilley noticed him as he and Rhys argued the pros and cons of being in the EU. "Ask Scottie, if he's been out."

"Huh?"

"The ice. _Go Ask Alis...I think he'll knooow,_ " Reilley joked in a sing-song mockery of _White Rabbit._

"Kay."

When the room was empty of adults (because Reilley and Rhys now wanted to use their laptops to offer stats on why they were right), Alfred tried calling his uncle. But the man was terse with him (cuz he was teaching and either " _get your arse out here if yeh wanna learn or wait til I'm done to be bumping your gums"_ ).

"I saw him out there," Wynn muttered—eyes focused on his phone screen.

"Really?" Alfred replied skeptically. Kid's eyes seemed glued to his device.

"Earlier. He was walking around it and smoking."

Yeah, that sounded like him.

"So he checked out the pond and gave it the thumbs-up?" Alfred asked hopefully.

Wynn shrugged. "He stepped on it a lot and there aren't any cones or caution tape. I was here one time when he did that. Ringed the whole thing."

"I see…" Alfred replied steadily, trying to be cool and composed, and then his joy overwhelmed him. "YES!"

* * *

Alistair shifted irritably as he watched Texas draw a defensive circle with the bone knife into the dirt.

Two days ago, he'd been giving Rhys a hard time for mischief's sake, because Rhys's sudden foray into athleticism had amused him greatly and it wasn't hard to guess the reason for it.

" _You're just jealous, that Uncle Al is the undisputed favorite," Alistair smirked and leaned against a wall. "That Alfred would trade that stack of Welsh fairy tales for a spar with me in a heartbeat."_

 _Rhys's hold on "The Fisherman of Shetland" tightened as he shifted the pile of the books to line up more neatly. "...I am."_

 _The redhead stared, "Eh?"_

" _...tell you what it is. It wasn't so long ago that_ _ **I**_ _was in the spot_ _ **you**_ _enjoy now."_

 _Alistair hastily straightened._

" _Hey now, I'm jus' takin' the piss," He tried to shrug. "Bairns get older yeh know? They go seeking for different qualities. I'll be on the outs soon enough when he hits puberty and Reilley will be the shoulder he can cry on when his face is an oily mess and I'll be replaced-"_

" _I wasn't replaced," Rhys hissed. "I was forgotten. And you knew...and didn't tell me."_

" _Whoa now. You didn't want anythin' to do with him. You didn't come with us when we visited-"_

" _I thought we were chopsing! That our confrontation had ruined-"_

" _Well tha's your own mistake!"_

" _You knew!" His nostrils flared. "You know I kept Arthur from calling you out when we arrived. But perhaps I should've let him."_

" _What are yeh-"_

" _Perhaps you deserve it." Rhys glared. "You. Knew. You knew it all. You kept Arthur from finding out which...made me think...the worst of him...I...I thought I delivered my news and he callously ignored it."_

 _1812...Alfred's injury…_

 _No...no...Alistair refused to feel guilty for it._

" _You chose to not be involved afterwards. I fought him too. It didn't stop me. Didn't stop Reilley." Alistair crossed his arms stubbornly. "There was nothing keeping either of you from visiting. Yeh just didn't. And I did. More than any o' you. More than Reilley. I looked out for wee Al. Helped him when I could-"_

 _Rhys got aggressively close, but Alistair held his ground._

" _It didn't have to be you," Rhys went on. "Do you understand yet? It didn't_ _ **have**_ _to be you._ _ **Only**_ _you… only when you had the time. You let it be that way. And you know who paid for it? Alfred. What's worse, is how grateful Alfred is to you._ _ **You**_ _, who kept him estranged from the rest of us. How many times was he in trouble that you weren't there to help him? That he never thought to seek anyone else? Wha? Say wha?"_

 _His Welsh accent was coming out strong now, which meant he'd probably spent the week brooding until he had momentum._

 _He needed to get out of this and fast. "Tha's not…that's not...you're wrong."_

" _Am I? Let's hear it, then."_

" _...I don't have to do this. Answer to you," He sneered before he could help it._

 _Rhys stiffened and his hazel eyes slitted. "No, you don't. Alfred's not_ _ **my**_ _child. But you do owe his_ _ **father**_ _an explanation. And the next time he wants it, I'll support him in getting it."_

Alistair rubbed at his forehead.

It wasn't a conversation he wanted to have. Ever.

And now when he saw Arthur...especially when he was with Alfred and the two were...being ridiculously sentimental…

He remembered joining his nephew on the sidelines: by the punch bowl, or in the gardens or taking him out of the palace altogether for a ride in the forest, or a drink in a tavern.

Sensing something was off in a letter he received, and using a business contract as an excuse to visit him and find out what the hell was going on.

Or then there were all the times he didn't do anything.

 _It was in the 1880s, and they made eye contact as Alistair struck up a match. Alfred was openly staring at them, as the lot of them bustled from shop to shop. They were dressed brightly enough to look like an exotic aviary. Arthur didn't like his wards in black and he'd wanted to reward everyone for excellent behavior at Court and so the parade through town began._

 _Alfred must've arrived early. He wasn't dressed for an encounter with them; his clothes were simple and worn and he looked haggard and sickly from being on a ship._

 _Alistair's eyes lingered on the tattered traveling coat—military issue—torn to ribbons in some places that blew with the wind. Alfred's eyes followed his gaze and nodded. He smiled wistfully and fell back into the mist...out of view._

And aye...he'd been wrong...and he knew that now…

But he didn't then…and...

Then...he'd...he'd really thought he was doing what was best. For Alfred.

* * *

Canada adjusted the microphone of his earpiece and looked down at his laptop. His counselor, Meegan, gave a friendly smile.

Earlier, Texas had guffawed at the name when Canada mentioned her.

" _Meegan? Her name is Meegan? Tch. Meegan...As in, Meegan the Vegan?" He rhymed inanely and snickered._

 _Which made Mathieu blush because...yeah...she was and that was a completely valid life choice! But when he tried to argue for her, Tex tuned him out._

 _Which earned him a raised eyebrow from Alfred, "Dude, that's Texas. Texas? Before he struck oil, cotton and cattle were the...actually...Dude, cotton and cattle are STILL some of his major...and he has oil now. You're not going to convert him. He's a truck-driving, cotton-wearing, carnivore. Ya gotta take him as he is."_

 _Tex frowned, "You talk like I'm a cracked sewing machine in the discount aisle."_

 _When Mathieu replied that he wasn't trying to convert him, that he was trying to open his mind to the reality that other people were allowed to have differing views, Alfred huffed, "You can invite her to your strange, blasphemous, Canadian Thanksgiving, but she can't come to ours!"_

They were ganging up against him. He noticed that lately. His American brothers were usually together now. Attempts to engage one in conversation, instantly involved the other.

The line had been drawn. And when he tried to change the subject to magic lessons, Tex began trying to oneup him with what he was learning from Scotland. For no other reason than to annoy him.

Considering how things had gone since Alfred's rescue, he could understand the treatment.

Alfred had given him a lot of chances to smooth things over...and he'd squandered them. And as Texas was a staunch supporter of Alfred in all things, Mathieu's blunders sabotaged that relationship too.

Meegan nodded sympathetically. " _I can appreciate how difficult this must be. It sounds like there are a lot of different family dynamics at work. Just between you and these two brothers...that's three families that are blended. And then there's the Commonwealth and-"_

"Yes. There are some cultural clashes but…I guess I...I just don't know Texas well enough to be...fighting with him as much as I do with Alfred...we just don't have the same history." Mathieu sighed, "It's just...Al's always front and center and loud. And I'm...not...I...it was always like that when we were young and it...never really changed. Even when he went off and was independent...he was gone...but he didn't really leave. Even his absence was loud. And Arthur wasn't...the same. Wards like me or Barbados or Jamaica...we knew it...but the younger ones didn't...and I never knew how to tell them that he was...not always like...that before he'd...but after..."

She nodded again.

Mathieu sucked in a breath and forged on. "W-whenever America was scheduled to visit, there'd be this angry tension...everything had to be immaculate, we all had to be dressed, everyone had to mind. And I had to step up to help keep things together and Arthur would be grateful and I...felt...useful and...I wanted to be useful but...it's like Arthur would lean on me and...he was an empire so it felt...heavy...and then! Then...when it didn't even seem like Alfred noticed or cared, there'd be this...anger over that...like we failed...And now…"

" _Now?"_ She encouraged.

"...he did notice...Alfred, I mean. He did notice...acted like he didn't...it was his own kind of spite...Both of them were...spiteful...I…" He swallowed. "...and I'm...spiteful...too."

Meegan frowned but didn't interrupt.

He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. "I don't want to feel like this...it's so stupid...I don't know why...it's like if I could just get one answer more, one answer better. I'd show him once and for all we were different. There was this one time...they had a fight...it was the 1849...World Fair...and I just wanted to calm England down...he was making everyone nervous. I brought him tea...it was late. It was very late and the fire was throwing shadows. And he was a little drunk already. When I came in holding a tray...he didn't see me...he saw...and then he realized...I don't know if you've ever watched hope die on someone's face before but...it's awful."

His counselor's eyebrows knit together sympathetically.

"And now Alfred's back and Arthur's...so happy. I mean of course...I can't imagine what we'd have done if…" He thought of the shattered clay husk in Osha's cabin. His gut churned so he didn't dwell on it. "I just...don't like feeling as though I've just been a stand in…"

" _Have you tried discussing this with Arthur?"_

"A little…"

" _And?"_

Mathieu shook his head. Arthur had immediately reached for alcohol at the restaurant when he tried.

Mathieu and his counselor talked some more about more recent interactions.

"I don't want to be taking all of this out on Alfred, but I can't seem to…not… be competitive and now...he's getting competitive. And it makes me even more...It's me. It's my fault this time. And I...but now...earlier in a...class," It was probably better to leave out the occult nature, "He wanted to succeed so much. And he couldn't."

And he knew how that felt. When they were young and Alfred was just a better horseman than him and could jump his pony and race it and win ribbons. The way Arthur's chest would puff when people commented on Alfred's talent.

And for a moment there'd been a wild, mean-spirited, sense of relief to finally have something. Because Al had so much…

" _...I feel like I'm letting you down…"_

It was the quiet, carefully controlled way he said it. A neutral tone better suited for when he was working on an engine and needed someone to pass him a socket wrench.

"It hurt…to see him...hurt over it…"

To see Alfred on the other side of that fence finally...and realize the grass wasn't that much greener.

Oh Alfred had Arthur's love. That was obvious…

And it wasn't half as restrained as what the rest of them received through the Victorian Era.

When they'd entered the room, Alfred had been in the Briton's arms, and Arthur spun him around with a flourish before setting him into his seat.

Green eyes had shone with affectionate attention...he didn't care who was watching.

But Al still struggled to get Arthur's approval...as a man...just like Mathieu...

Which...given his current form...

There was one knock and then Arthur entered with a basket of laundry. He smiled and gestured to the basket on his hip. He made occasional statements like "Because he's a weasel, that's why." Arthur had his session going on a cordless phone held between his ear and shoulder.

Apparently, he was in charge of laundry because they were too short staffed. He set Mathieu's clothes in a neatly folded pile on his bed and smoothed the red coverlet. As he stood, one article of clothing fell from the basket to the floor.

Arthur saved the child-sized cerulean blue turtleneck with a soft smile and folded it up again. He set it carefully back into the basket.

Meegan laced her hands together. " _I'm concerned that you feel the need to compare yourself to him in all things. You're two different people. You'll have different strengths."_

"Yeah," He sighed and looked out the panes of the French doors leading to his small balcony.

Violet eyes narrowed as he saw Alfred's small figure tromping through the snow to the pond.

" _...and weaknesses…"_

He looked over to where Arthur had paused in the doorway with a frown. "Because Reilley is a git. Alistair's a git, too. Unless, I've stated otherwise. You should assume they're all gits-"

Mathieu looked back out the window as Meegan droned on about how even when she asked him personal questions...he managed to bring his brother into it. He dominated conversations and wasn't even there.

His little brother sat down near the edge.

He wasn't wearing enough to be outside. Whenever he visited Canada and complained about the cold, Mathieu would scold him about not being dressed properly. Why didn't any of that ever stick with him?

What was he doing? Did he even have ice skates?

Arthur had said something a while ago about needing to get Alfred some and that surely, Mathieu would be the best advisor—veteran that he was in the sport of hockey.

It was an opportunity, served on a silver platter, for him to step up into the good older brother spot.

Arthur had stared hard at him as he'd said it—wanting him to care.

But…

Mathieu hadn't thought to bring it up, given how they'd kept squabbling.

The Canadian peered down. His brother was strapping something onto his shoes…

Oh no…he must've found some antiques.

A sense of wrongness twisted his gut. "Hey Arthur, does...Alfred have permission to-"

The Briton gave him a look. He'd already gotten a few terse warnings over the last few days. First from Arthur, who'd beseeched him to get along for the sake of family harmony, and then a rather surprising one from Rhys.

The Welshman had stopped him from leaving the room on the pretense of going over one of his papers at the end of the class. Afterwards, he abruptly asked him why he felt the need to add onto Alfred's answers.

" _There is a pattern: Sometimes I ask a question and you answer. Other times, Alfred answers. Whenever Alfred answers, you answer after—more elaborately."_

" _..."_

" _Why?"_

" _..."_

" _I am the teacher. You are the student. When he is wrong,_ _ **if**_ _he is wrong or incomplete..._ _ **I**_ _will correct him. Arthur will correct him. One of your uncles will correct him. Not. You. Do you understand?"_

" _...I'm not trying to...I just...want to show what I know..."_

" _To who?" Rhys gestured to the paper. "_ _ **This**_ _shows me what you know. When we talk, you show me what you know."_

" _I didn't realize you didn't want me to answer questions."_

" _We both know that's not what I'm saying." Hazel eyes gave him a hard, searching look._

Arrogant...malicious...

Rhys hadn't wanted to phrase it like that...but he was coming close to it and if Mathieu didn't learn to curb the habit...

He'd overheard Alfred telling Texas he was a teacher's pet, a snobby goody two shoes, a big ol' snitch.

Mathieu knew what he was: a bully.

And it was testament to how much Alfred cared about him...that even when upset and frustrated...his brother...didn't define him that way.

Which made him feel awful.

And drawing Arthur's attention to this latest stunt wasn't going to fuel the bonds of brotherly love but...his stomach flopped and he just couldn't keep quiet.

"I mean, the ice in the pond," He gestured. "Has Alistair cleared it as safe to skate on?"

Arthur went deathly pale and his green eyes flitted to the window.

"Because…" Mathieu's mouth dried. "I didn't think he had."

He usually declared something was safe when everyone was gathered together. Should've done it at lunch earlier if all was well.

Arthur's face went green and he dropped his phone.

Mathieu knocked his chair over in his haste to stand.

They both shot over to the double doors in Mathieu's room—leaving their counselors calling their names. Arthur's phone from the floor and Mathieu's laptop at his desk.

The metal latch was pulled from the wood as Arthur manipulated it with the force of a nation instead of a man. They scrambled to the railing for a better view.

Down below, Alfred was making practice glides on the ice. He seemed to be involved in some impromptu game of chase with the asrai.

"Alfred!?" Arthur bellowed.

His brother looked up and waved—breath misting in the cold as he laughed.

Arthur's chest was heaving. "Alfred! Get off the ice, it's dangerous-"

But the wind picked up and Alfred motioned that he couldn't hear. Probably couldn't hear the cracking either.

With desperate windmilling arm, they both signalled him to get off.

But he entreated them with equally exaggerated movements for them to come down.

And Mathieu could read his lips: _Play with me._

He was almost hyper aware of the first poolings of water that began to surround his little brother.

And he was too acquainted with the phenomena to even think. He was already moving over the railing, down the garden trellis. He dropped down into the snow.

Because he already knew what came next.

He was sprinting as fast the snow would allow.

It was the wide eyed stare Alfred gave him when he realized what was happening that made Mathieu's insides knot.

Like it never occurred to him that something could go wrong.

It just...never...occurred...

And then he went under.

* * *

Read & Review Please : DD


	23. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer:** _I do not own Hetalia._ Or the Lenape Legend of Rainbow Crow. Or Peter Pan.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Alfred and Arthur centric chap. Drama. Feels. Angst. Roller Disco.

 **AN:** I know, I know. I really need to update _Sirena,_ but I've got to track down my notes for it XD. I'm in the calm before the next storm, so I cranked this chap out for you guys. Thanks for sticking with me! Geez, this has been a rough semester! Thank you for your reviews! I check them at school a lot to brighten my day : DDD

Hope you enjoy!

 **Chapter 23: Tangled Like A Butterfly**

* * *

Alfred blankly stared at the sun and watched the light ripple on the surface of the water as he sank.

Crap.

Fly! Fly dammit! But he'd flown a lot earlier and the magic he needed, eddied at his internal reach instead of jumping to his command.

Crap!

 _Old-fashioned way it is!_ He thought desperately as he struggled to swim. But his body was heavy and sore and the cold!

Goddammit, the cold! Needle-sharp and everywhere.

Time seemed to stretch…

And it was so dark here...

Nonono, he needed to react now! He had between three and five minutes to get the fuck out of here before his muscles failed him.

He struggled to move up, but his clothes and his skates were weighing him down.

Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic.

He was running out of air and time.

He stared down at his shoes and the skates. Maybe if he could get them off?

He blinked when Dwr_ swam under him and carefully grasped the blades in her webbed hands and used them to push him up.

Her silvery fish eyes were determined and she gave him a nod of "I-Got-This" and then he felt a hand grab the back of his shirt.

He stared up and-and-and-

...saw...Mathieu?

His brother wrapped an arm around him, and swam them up to the hole in the ice.

They broke the surface and then Round Two of Try-To-Survive began.

"We-we gotta," He spluttered.

"It's alright," Mathieu breathed. "It's alright, Al. I got ya." He began moving them to the edge of the ice. "I'm going to get you...on the edge. Don't stand, eh? That's important. Don't stand. Roll. You'll roll instead. Otherwise, you could fall through. Again."

"R-r-right," Alfred chattered. "I-I-I-"

"Al, I'm going to...lift you. Now."

Another set of arms immediately got ahold of him. "Good God. Is he alright? Is he-he? Are _**you**_ alright?"

Alfred stared at Arthur. Whoa...when did he get there?

How long was he under?

Over at the edge of the pond, Alistair and Texas were waiting to pull them all to safety.

When did they all get there? He wondered dazedly.

Arthur gruffly ordered Alfred to hold onto his back.

Soooo bossy.

The Briton turned to Mathieu. "Alright, lad. You next."

"Arthur, I know how to get out." He exhaled, gripped the edge, and then hefted himself up.

"Arf. Arf. L-l-like a sssss-ss-sseal," Alfred noted.

Mathieu looked to Arthur, "I think he's getting hypothermia, you'd better-"

"In a moment," Arthur growled.

"Ar-"

"Damnation! I'm saving you both. Take my hands this bloody instant!"

Mathieu offered both hands and Arthur gripped him by his forearms.

Arthur gave a piercing whistle and then they were sliding across the ice.

Alfred reminisced about how sailors used to do the rope work at theaters in ages past and how it felt to be suspended by wires for certain pieces.

"W-woooo-h-hoo," Alfred murmured softly. "I-I w-wanted an ad-advent-ure."

"And you got it bro, yippee kay yay," Tex replied soothingly as he unzipped Alfred's wet coat and removed it from before he pulled off his own shearling long jacket. He wrapped the dry garment around Alfred before picking him up. "I gotcha. Let's get ya in."

* * *

Texas hurried into the house with Alfred in his arms.

Baby brother was looking pretty baby blue.

Plus, he always got that slightly sad and confused look whenever he began dying from exposure. Like he just couldn't quite accept that his body was letting him down.

It was better when he got shot. He at least knew what the hell was going on most of the time.

 _Tex blinked as Alistair went stockstill._

" _The hell is he...doing?"_

 _Unsure if this was a trick question, Tex shrugged, "Uh, I think he's gonna ice dance or something? He does that sometimes."_

 _Tex seldom joined him—he just didn't have the talent for that sort of thing. Roller skates neither. God, he was so glad Roller Disco was out._

 _Scotland's gray eyes were wide. "...I dunno if it'll hold him…"_

" _Huh?"_

 _He cursed violently in Gaelic or whatever as Alfred disappeared under the ice._

" _Grab a rope from m'shed and meet me there!" Alistair ordered as he loped through the snow towards the pond._

 _When Tex arrived with rope in hand, he found Mathieu sprawled out on the ice—edging toward the break and that Alistair had Arthur by the arm._

" _Fer Chrissakes hold on a minute!" the Scotsman growled._

 _Arthur was frantic. "Release me! They're both-"_

 _Alistair noticed Tex then, took the rope, and tied it around Arthur. "Go now."_

 _He was off like a shot._

"I-I-I feel like a-a-a t-t-tool," Alfred sniffled as he shivered.

"Nah, not you. This stuff happens," Tex muttered, looking around and trying to remember which room to head to.

"We have the fire going over here," Rhys barked from further down the hall.

Tex hurried toward him.

The Welshman looked around. "Where's Mathieu? My brothers?!"

"They're still outside. They'll be comin' quick."

Sure enough, he and Al were just entering the room when—

"Arthur, I'm okay," Mathieu assured as Arthur manhandled him toward the fireplace. "I go kayaking in January, Arth-"

"Mr. Gray is fetching them clothes," Rhys reported.

Arthur nodded.

Mathieu pulled his wet sweater and shirt off and stood near the fire and sighed. He looked over at Alfred and Texas and smiled, "I'm glad you're alright, Al."

Texas and Alfred shared a look. He was so damn nonchalant about it all.

That got Al's goat. Bad.

"Y-yeah, I-I-I'm good. F-fine. I can-can-" Al struggled to get out of his and Tex's jackets with what had to be numb fingers. His hands weren't clenching right.

Arthur plucked him out of Tex's arms and sat down near the fire. He then unceremoniously began undressing Al before he "bloody freezed" to death.

"Hey!" Tex's brother squawked as he was stripped down. "D-d-don't I g-get s-s-s-s-some d-dignity?"

"No," Arthur replied tersely.

"Here you go, Alfie-boy," Reilley bundled him into a soft fleece blanket. "Ere ya freeze yer jewels off."

Arthur turned to Texas, "Go get towels."

Tex nodded, "Right."

He raided the downstairs bathrooms and returned with armfuls in time to see Mr. Gray was was white with anxiety as he hurried in with clothes for his brothers.

Aoife came in pushing a rolling cart full of steaming refreshments. "Alright, let's get yeh all warmed up. Here ya go, lovey." She passed Alfred a mug which Arthur helped him hold.

Alfred frowned down at the contents and wrinkled his nose. "Ew, t-t-t-this isssss tea. I-I-I don't-"

"Drink your tea," Arthur growled, and in such an abide-or-else deep octave that Tex jolted.

Alfred obediently took a sip.

Arthur took one of Tex's proffered towels and began drying Alfred's hair. "I don't know what the devil you were thinking. Going out there when-"

"I called Nancy," Reilley stated to the tense room. "She's on her way."

Alfred groaned. "N-n-nooo, I'm f-f-f-fine."

"What? Nancy?!" Arthur turned—incredulous. "We need an ambulance! He was under for-for-God...six, seven minutes?"

"Less than three," Scotland murmured. "Just...felt longer."

"Nancy will decide if we need to take him to hospital," Reilley frowned.

"B-b-b-b-butttt-"

"Are meant for sitting." Reilley forced a smile as he started to come over, at least until Arthur gave him more things to do.

When Al was allowed to be dressed, he was given a hot water bottle to hold between layers.

"I can heat up some more, if it pleases Your Worship," Reilley glared at Arthur who didn't appreciate it.

He nodded tiredly, "At least three more."

When Reilley returned with the next batch, Mathieu was amused as he accepted his hot water bottle, "It's not that cold for me." He began reminiscing aloud about his own geography until Tex interrupted him.

"I got deserts in my backyard. So it's freaking cold here to me. Gimme one of those." He sighed in relief as Reilley tossed him one. "Ohhh yeah, c'mere, you," He hugged it close.

Being out in the elements everyday for training had been doing a number on him, and then carrying Al-the-icecube hadn't really helped.

He looked over to where his little brother was getting restless. Which was good, it meant he was gonna snap out of this.

Still, Arthur was being pretty rigid with him—ignoring Al's desires to get up and go. Instead, he rewrapped the blanket—swaddling him tightly.

Tch. Idgit.

Restriction made Al cranky.

Sure enough, creases began to appear in his face; first, between the eyebrows, next at the edges of his eyes, and then came a fierce frown.

Tex fished out a deck of cards so he could play memory with Al. He'd point to one and then the next whenever it was Al's turn.

Which got him to lighten up.

"This one?"

"Nope," Alfred replied.

"Ohh, that one?"

"No," he giggled.

"How about this one here?" Tex smiled.

"No!"

And it was a relief as time passed and Al warmed up enough to start playing better. His blue eyes lit up with thought as memorization became easier.

* * *

Arthur chewed on a knuckle as he paced. His insides were coiled in a tight knot of anxiety. And he'd sprained his ankle following Mathieu's route down from the balcony. He'd landed awkwardly in the snow. While Nancy had given him a lookover after the boys and confirmed that nothing was broken, she warned him to rest it.

He could feel her gaze on it, as he limped back and forth.

Tex clicked his tongue. "Soooo Nancy-the-Nurse-Lady, Al checks out?"

She gave the young man a wry smile, "Yes, but keep him warm."

"Will do."

"And Mathieu?" Arthur demanded.

"Also healthy."

Arthur watched her face closely. "And Alfred's healthy?"

"The lady just said-"

"He's still underweight, isn't he?"

She sighed, "...yes, he still seems a little underweight. But he's small for his age, so that's a factor."

It was hard not to take that personally—to wonder if he'd been able to raise his son since infancy whether he'd be like this...or if he was to blame...was it the nature of Roanoke's founding that Alfred had been born prematurely?

Against his will, he glanced at Texas and felt a harsh sting of resentment for Spain who'd been fortunate enough to have been present for his own colony's birth….and the lad had grown up to be healthy. All the misadventures they'd had this past year and nary an illness or injury (save what Arthur had inflicted on him in moments of temper).

"You'll stay? To monitor their health?" Arthur demanded.

"Yes," she agreed.

"Good." He turned on his heel to return to his boys.

And he wasn't a moment too soon.

Mathieu was wide eyed and immediately pointed him to where Alfred stood ringed by his uncles.

His small form, still huddled in a blanket by the hearth (where Arthur had hesitantly left him), was tense with anger and insolence smoldered in his bright blue eyes.

Perfect.

Just what Arthur wanted to deal with.

"I didn't know I had to inform everybody and their grandma on my whereabouts," Alfred spat sullenly.

"Yeah, you do," Alistair growled as he crossed his arms.

"But Uncle Al!"

"No, don't 'Uncle Al' me on this. Yeh shoulda checked with me. Yeh shoulda told somebody. And yeh shoulda had somebody come with yeh."

"We're not in the city! You said- _ **you**_ said, and I paraphrase: I had to follow rules there cuz humans would think Dad was bad if they saw me doing my own thing. But we're out in the middle of nowhere. I can do whatever I want again."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. Well, he'd definitely need to nip that notion in the bud.

"Whatever you want?" Alistair started to laugh. "Is that what you think? That you can just-"

"I used to be able to go off whenever I wanted," Alfred argued. "Wherever I wanted, when I became independent. Nobody cared."

Arthur flinched.

Alistair started laughing harder, "Yeh really believe that? That it was just a matter of sovereignty and looking like you hit your majority that-"

Alfred frowned, "I made my own way-"

"Alfie-boy...don't," Reilley murmured tiredly.

"I did!" Alfred insisted shrilly. "I made my own way and I never asked for anything! No silk cushions for me! I worked for everything and I-"

"Don't ya think it was ever a wee bit odd that you could always find work?" Reilley muttered. "That sooo many docks and shops could always be in need of you? No matter what time of year?"

"Huh? No, I'm...I'm a hardworker. I'm sincere. It shows in my face that I'm of a good character. Trustworthy, dependa-"

Reilley raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Or that you could hunt and fish wherever you damn well fancied without ever being subjected to laws of trespassing? That lords and barons and earls or their sons would just happen to cross your path and invite you in?"

"Wha...whaddya mean? H-how do you know that? I mean, I'm friendly! I know you all think I've got no manners, but I'm friendly! Plenty of people think I'm good company-"

"That no layman, no lord, and no king even, ever dared to try yeh in court for anythin'?"

Blue eyes went wide. "...what?"

"The fights you were in, the trouble you caused, that train you knocked over in 18-"

Arthur elbowed Reilley and Alistair out of his way. "For Christ's sake, you're just trying to upset him, now."

"Oi, the anklebiter had this coming!" Scotland muttered and started to pull out a cigarette. "Like we didn't keep tabs on him."

"Don't you dare light that here," Rhys stated darkly. "Have you no concern for the dangers of secondhand smoke? And there are children here."

Arthur took his place between them and his son. "Off with you lot! Now!"

The redheads reluctantly backed up, but Rhys lingered, unimpressed.

Green eyes narrowed, but hazel eyes held them unflinchingly.

The contest was broken with—

"Did you know, too?" Alfred looked up at him—devastated.

Arthur pointed to the ceramic bowl sitting to Alfred's right on the hearth before the fire; it was still terribly full. Trust his brothers to lecture when his son needed nourishment. Scolding came after wellbeing. "You need to eat that broth before it goes cold and does you no good."

"Did you...know?" Alfred repeated. The blanket began to slide down off his shoulders. "That I hunted and fished and made camps and-and-and…?"

Arthur didn't answer; he pulled the blanket back up, and pointed to the bowl again. "Eat."

Did he know? Of course he did.

And he'd nursed a private pain that his child would rather glean a meal from the wilderness than sit at his table in the comforts of a home and dine with him, but he was a father. His duty, stripped of all romantic notions, was to provide food, shelter, and an education. So long as one of his children was within his borders, they'd be cared for...even if it couldn't be done by him personally. Alfred wanted to hunt his meals? Fine. Let no hunters or fences or the rules of royal forests deter him.

A small hand tugged at his trousers, "It wasn't stealing! It was living off your land, but it wasn't stealing. When I killed something, I used all of it. And I always let you hunt on my land, too. Remember? So it was fair." The child insisted desperately. "That made it fair."

For a moment Arthur could only stare at him and then spluttered sharply, "Of course it wasn't stealing. Of course not."

And Arthur glared harder at his brothers, who looked chagrined, and he hoped for their sakes—that wasn't the point they were trying to impress on their nephew.

"Of course not," He forced a smile. "Now, come sup with me, love."

* * *

Alfred craned his head to look up at Uncle Rhys, who'd fallen asleep. Sure, he'd had to endure back-to-back scoldings (first from Arthur and then from Rhys) about poor judgment and the importance of getting second opinions...but it kinda equalled out; they'd spent the morning marathoning fairytales which made Nancy's checkup of him more bearable. He never liked being poked and prodded, but having distant mystical lands described...and the fact that Arthur would gladly answer any of his questions while Rhys waited to continue. Or that Rhys seemed to be cottoning on that he wasn't trying to be rude, he just...really wanted to know.

He'd admitted after Arthur went into great detail describing the Seelie Court and its fountains and indoor stream and loops of flora and sparkling drapes that he...kinda wanted to see it. If...if maybe...Arthur could be there, too. Because…

Alfred gently touched the skin beneath the eye that had been taken. Sure, he'd grown it back but…

If that was a normal fae interaction...he definitely wasn't waltzing in there by himself.

Arthur promised he would before he left for a phone conference with Parliament. Rhys continued on through a stack of stories with a fervor that was a little worrying.

His dad and his uncles had been freaked since yesterday. Since after…his… disastrous icecapade.

Alfred carefully extracted himself from the older man's hold and pulled the quilt they'd been sharing, higher up on the Welshman.

As he wandered down the hallway in three pairs of socks, because Arthur panicked when he'd seen that he kicked them off in bed last night, he tried to think ahead.

About what groceries he and Tex would need to pick up once they were back in the states tomorrow. What diner to visit when they driving home from the airport...whether he'd have breakfast with a smiley face pancake or a full on meal, like a burger and fries and onion rings and a milkshake with sprinkles and extra whipped cream…

He blinked hard…

That stuff was supposed to make him feel happy…

He looked around at the paintings in the hallway and his eyes paused on the double doors to the left.

He heard people talking in the library…

He gave it a leery look—the place definitely gave him foreboding feelings following his panic attack there.

"It's a simple question," Mr. Gray stated seriously. "Did you see him go out there?"

"..."

"He's seven years old, Wynn."

"I...thought he was America...America's like...old, right? Like England."

"He's seven."

"But-"

"I don't care you've read in history books. He's only seven. Did you see him go out there? In the snow? _By himself_? How did he know where the antique skates were, Wynn?"

Alfred peered in to see Wyn was pale and nervous.

"I dunno!" the boy blurted.

"I found them last December when I hid out in a shed!" Alfred answered from the doorway. "I...I didn't tell anyone what I was planning. That's what Alistair chewed my butt out for."

"Oh," Mr. Gray gasped and looked over at him. He put a hand to his heart. "Goodness, gave me such a start. Oh, I should probably run your bath, now."

Alfred watched the teen slowly slink from his chair to an opposite pair of doors in the library.

"Yeah, a bath sounds good," Alfred replied—giving the kid time to make his escape.

Wynn eased the doors open and as he left, gave him a look torn between gratitude and guilt.

Alfred shrugged and gave a smile, it was just an accident.

"Lots of bubbles, okay?" Sometimes it was good to play up the little kid card.

Mr. Gray nodded attentively, "Of course, of course." He noticed distractedly that Wynn was gone and shook his head slightly in irritation before slipping back into his butler-y persona. "Now, the Admiral asked me if I would draw one for you before lunch, but I'd like to ask Nancy first. Make sure it's safe for you. That it won't give you a shock."

When they tracked her down, she gave them the green light, and the man asked where he'd prefer it.

"I like the one with the ships."

"Ah the master's quarters," the butler eyed him and smiled in amusement. "You would."

It seemed like the morning was shaping up, at least until, they passed a room with a door left ajar and he saw—

"Sir?" Mr. Gray asked.

Arthur embracing Mathieu…

"Thankyouthankyouthankyou. Thank God for you. You saved him. You did. I don't know what I would've-" was the steady stream of gratitude. "But God, when you went under too, I-"

"Sir?"

He turned away and continued walking.

He'd never get that. Hoped to get that during WWI. Expected it during WWII. But it never came. It never would.

"Young Master?" He looked to the room and then back to him.

"I always fuck stuff up," he admitted quietly. And Mattie was always the one that capitalized on it. Always the golden, goody-two-shoes...all he had to do was sit back and wait...Alfred was always bound to botch something...

Maybe it was for the best that he and Tex would be outta there by the next day. They attracted drama like magnets.

He waited for some kind of telling off for using such foul language. But it didn't come. In fact, he couldn't even tell if the elderly man was frowning because the world was so blurry.

It was a little surprising when he was picked up. "I'm certain that isn't the case. And I think I can prove that to you now, if we simply take a moment and talk it out with them-"

Alfred panicked at the thought of laying it all out. It was bad enough to carry it inside, the thought of having it known... "Nononono! I just...I want the bath. I smell gross. Please! _Please_..."

Gray sighed and very reluctantly agreed.

So he took a bath, or tried to, only half way through Arthur demanded the door be unlocked. And when Alfred called back that it was too late, he was in the tub. Arthur fetched the Master's set of keys and unlocked it himself. Then he kept knocking to check up on him and finally he just barged in to ask him what he wanted for lunch.

Alfred had looked up from the handful of bubbly foam he had in his hands and made his ire known. Seriously, yeah, he'd risked a drowning yesterday. But that was a lake and this was a bathtub. And he wasn't completely incompetent, thank you, and when he called the old man out on it, he went very stiff.

His jaw clenched and he went into a military stance that Alfred recognized too well from previous arguments. He left abruptly—closing the door hard behind him.

Later when Alfred was dressed, he entered the kiddie room—desperate for some Disney to lighten the mood—and found Arthur in the rocking chair. His knitting needles were working at a furious pace.

There was a hardness in his countenance. His green eyes were sharp. And it was all so familiar. It was one of the default expressions that was just for Alfred in the years following his Revolution...

They were backsliding to where they'd been before...

Alfred tried to swallow down the lump in his throat and couldn't, "Look, I know I messed up. I'm sorry. I know you're angry but-but it was an accident and I'm sorr-"

The needles stopped clacking. "-not angry."

"Huh?"

England dumped his crafting supplies into the basket beside his chair. "I'm not angry."

America frowned, "Yeah, you are. Y-you...you always get like this when you're angry. When I've ticked you off. And I just can't...deal with-with this right now. So can you just get it all out? And we'll get it over with?"

"I. Am. Not. Angry. At. You."

"Then what's with you!" he demanded—storming over to him—aware that his voice was overloud and rang with more power than he felt and he desperately wanted some feeling of control...some kind of foothold. "What is it you want from me? What do you want to hear? That I'm a clumsy screw-up? Tch! Like that's a secre-"

Arthur's hand cut the word off, "N-no, that's...not what I want to-to…No...not that..."

His voice was all wrong. Soft and hoarse.

"I'm frightened."

Alfred stared as his father's hand moved again and cupped his cheek.

"You frightened me. I can't lose you again," He answered in a strained voice. "I had never...lost one. Not whilst they were under my care. Or even when grown but in my sight. I was always careful. Even when I took them into battle with me. Never lost one then...Never as a child. _Never._ Until you…"

It took Alfred a minute to realize they weren't agonizing about quite the same thing.

December felt like forever ago...

Arthur's eyes were dull. "In a bag and they...didn't even clean you up...treated you like rubb...you, _**you**_ ," He traced Alfred's eyebrows with his thumbs and brushed his fingers over his features like he was some priceless sculpture. "How could they do that to you? Monsters. How could they? How could any of them do it? Your people or mine? When they know damn well how much I...I can't do that again. Ever. Do you understand me?" He pulled Alfred near.

"I…"

 _Months and months of not being able to find him and weeping alone in Alfred's bedroom._

 _When the surgery in Osha's cabin went wrong...and Arthur feared the worst…_

 _A montage of images of Alfred—mostly ones where he was smiling, or young, or adequately defenseless and vulnerable to make Arthur feel needed._

 _Little hands plucking at Arthur's breeches to be picked up…_

 _A little body snuggling underwing at storytime…_

 _His little boy giving him childish kisses and declaring his undying admiration and affection._

 _Tucking him in as a child or fixing his cravat as a teenager before they entered a royal governor's abode._

And there was too much tenderness in the feelings for Alfred to feel embarrassed by them.

 _Holding the young man close as he vowed to heal and restore the lad's failing sight._

 _The past and the present bled together._

 _Arthur's hands carefully tended to bruises and scrapes, pet soft wheat hair, cupped Alfred's little face and playfully pinched his nose…_

 _His hands brutally ripped at the parachute harness..._

 _Because America was unresponsive and tangled in a tree._

 _Damn that Red Baron..._

Alfred nodded. Yeah, that jackass...

" _Is he even alive?" Eire asked. "They're getting close."_

 _He'd seen their dogfight, the flashes of machinegun fire._

 _It was more than imprudent to linger when he had his own array of missions to complete._

 _But he just knew it was Alfred. Knew it. And he couldn't leave without knowing if the younger nation survived his encounter with Germany's ace-of-aces._

 _And when he'd gone down..._

 _England would be damned if he left the boy for Germany to take prisoner._

 _And when he'd found him…_

 _Like he'd give them the opportunity to shoot him where he was. Tangled like a butterfly in a web._

 _Neither Reilley nor Arthur had a knife on them anymore since their scuffle with the krauts earlier._

 _He climbed out further onto the tree branch—daring it to hold him, willing it to hold him, commanding it to hold him so he could work Alfred free._

 _The blood trickling down from Alfred was warm._

" _Is he alive?" Reilley repeated. "They're coming. Goddamn it, they're coming. Albion!"_

 _The parachute, the branches, the harness, they were all fighting him. And he had to keep one hand on the branch above to stay balanced._

" _Coming…" Reilley breathed._

 _Damnation. One cord just wouldn't give. And he was weak. If he used his strength as a nation...he wouldn't be able to control it well. He could cause America more injury if he lost control._

 _Alfred groaned in pain._

 _Alive! Alivealivealivealive. He had to save him._

 _But he had no knife...he had no knife...but he had teeth. He grabbed the cord and ripped through it._

 _Their combined weight broke the branch beneath his feet._

 _But he had him. He had him!_

" _Oooh me, he's in bad shape. Maybe we should hide him? Come back later."_

 _Arthur glared._

 _Abandon him?_

 _Never..._

 _He ripped the black body bag to pieces._

 _And he washed and combed the blood out of Alfred's hair. He cleaned it out from under his little fingernails. Arthur carefully scrubbed where it had dribbled down from Alfred's mouth and nose over his chin and throat to his chest and dried._

 _And he cradled the dead weight and pressed his lips to a cold forehead._

Alfred shuddered because while everything else had been sadness and desperation. The current under the latest grief was something else. Related to what had come before and yet...alien and strange...something deeper and darker than rage.

Like it didn't matter that the woman who'd hit him with her car had done so on accident...or that the people who delivered him to the motel were just following orders.

"I want to go flying!" Alfred blurted. "I want you to come with me!"

Where the sky was fresh and new despite being ancient, and if there was any hope for anything it was up there.

Arthur shook his head gravely, "No, Sweet."

"Come on, come on, come on, pleeeeease?"

"Alfie…"

And he could feel that his old man just wanted to hole up inside the manor. And Alfred hazily picked up memories of great stone halls during bitter winters. Torches and hearths and flickering shadows. A sanctuary where wounds could be licked and strategies planned.

And yes, outside was harsh. He'd spent winters in it. How many, he couldn't say...they were before he could count. They blended into one long memory of ice and cold. And yes, the air up high was doubly so, but it was beautiful and when light flashed on the icicles in trees...

"Daddy, _please_! For me..."

* * *

Arthur reluctantly moved out into the snow. He was loathe to have his child out so soon after the lake incident. And everything out here looked like a creeping danger to his tired, father-eyes. But Alfred was insistent and if he didn't make concessions now, he'd have to spend the rest of the day paranoid about Alfred striking out on his own without any supervision.

Fifteen minutes. That was his maximum for this excursion. Fifteen minutes and not a second more. He had the timer on his phone set.

The child tugged him forward and swung their arms playfully.

"It'll be fun!" He gave Arthur's hand a squeeze.

"Only for a little bit," Arthur murmured. "Then we head back in, alright?"

Alfred abruptly stopped and pulled his hand away.

"Alfie..."

Alfred used his teeth to help him get his gloves off and shoved them in his pocket.

"Alfred!"

The child then reached over and pulled Arthur's gloves off as well.

"What're you-"

He then grabbed Arthur's hands, "I told you I wanted to take you flying!"

England felt his stomach swoop as his feet left the snowy ground, "Alfred, Alfred, wait. Ahhh!"

America giggled and squeezed his hands. He understood now why Alfred didn't want either of them wearing gloves for this.

The boy's scarf tickled at Arthur's nose at that precise moment and he sneezed, "Alfred, no, I really don't think this is-"

The child let out an aggravated whine, "O come on, it's not like I'd deliberately drop you."

So...if he _**was**_ dropped it'd be by accident. How reassuring.

Arthur nervously cleared his throat, "Let's-ahhh" the boy's flight dipped. "Let's go inside.

We'll practice with cushions!"

Alfred's cheeks puffed, "Rhys was a much better sport."

Arthur's jaw dropped in shock and then he glowered, "You practiced with Rhys before _**me**_?!"

Alfred looked away as he blushed, "I wanted to work some kinks out before I took you."

"Humph!"

Alfred sighed, "Cuz I knew you were gonna be a killjoy like this!"

"A killjoy!?" He rasped indignantly. "Because I'm a smidge concerned about watching my legs dangle in the breeze?"

"We're barely three feet up!" Alfred argued. "God, I knew it'd be like carriage driving practice. You freaking out cuz I'm the one holding the reigns!"

Arthur felt his heart skip a beat, "I was calmer than Reilley or Rhys, if you remember?"

Alfred blinked and laughed suddenly, "I DO remember. It came down to you and Uncle Al teaching me!"

Arthur smiled, "That's right."

His memories were returning. Arthur felt his eyes sting a bit. He was so happy. The child was remembering.

Only it seemed to boost his confidence, and Alfred levitated higher and higher.

Arthur swallowed nervously, "Alfie?! S'good practice. Let's float down now. Nice and easy and slooow."

"Where's your Peter Pan spirit?" Alfred crowed—swinging him in a lazy circle. "Where's your crow's nest calm?"

It was highly discomfiting seeing treetops whirl beneath him.

"Eeep."

He watched one wellie (because honestly he had not expected anything strenuous) slip off his foot and fall from the fatal height.

"O God."

He took a deep breath and endeavored to look up at Alfred instead.

Alfred gasped and Arthur's stomach plummeted.

"I just remembered! Oh, oh, when I was Roanoke. I'd sometimes use a stick so I could more easily magick Ginnie into the air with me. We'd both sit on it, and I'd make it rise and-" A curious look passed over Alfred's face, "Hey Daddy, do you think New England still has witches?"

Where in the world had that come from?

"I...I couldn't say…"

"Oh…" Alfred looked thoughtful as he lowered them down.

Arthur didn't even mind the cold that seeped in through his sock as they landed. Arthur reeled his son into his arms and settled him on his hip.

"Did you like it?" Alfred asked abruptly. "I know it was super short, but…"

"Hmm?"

"The way the light glistened and the breeze rustled and the birdsongs in the branches-"

"Birdsong?" He looked over to where crows were rasping and back to his child. "Birdsong?"

He shuddered at the sight of them; they were an omen of death...scavengers of the battlefield.

"Don't you know the story of the 'Many Colored Crow?' All those other stories you guys know...and you don't know this one? The Lenape told me."

Arthur leant down to retrieve his wellie and jerk it onto his foot. "Well, don't leave me in suspense, darlingheart."

After Arthur straightened back up and made for the house (carefully, because his ankle was starting to smart but he didn't want to draw Alfred's attention to it), Alfred rested his head against Arthur's shoulder and began, "Many seasons ago, when the world was new and green, the Creator made a Snow Spirit who covered all in sleet and ice. The animals were troubled and assembled to decide who must travel to heaven and ask the Creator for help. Turtle was too slow, Owl's sight was too poor, Coyote was too insincere to successfully get aid. All this, they decided before Rainbow Crow, most beautiful and colorful, the sweetest of songbirds, volunteered to make the great journey..."

* * *

Read & Review Please : D


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hetalia. Or the Lenape legend of Rainbow Crow. Or Walmart. Or Woman in Gold. Or Force Majeure. Or Shaun the Sheep. Or _Les Visiteurs. Or Play Doh. Or Call of Duty, Halo, or Mario. Or Kleenex, Dimetapp, Robitussin,_

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable

inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Governor Andros...whom we can blame for all sorts of colonial resentments. Some hard playful poking at French cinema. Not everyone appreciates AA's Step 9...cough Tex...Fluff. Drama. Angst. More Angst. Texas keepin' it real.

 **AN:** Thank you for your reviews! Hope all my fellow Americans had a great Thanksgiving and survived Black Friday! : DDD And now I've got to get back to my studies. Semester's wrapping up and there's an absurd amount of work for me to do on final projects. We'll see when I can update again. Have fun on that cliffhanger XD

 **Chapter 24: Little Mr. Sassy Britches**

* * *

Arthur hummed as he rocked the chair and tried not to think about the folk story Alfred had told him earlier.

 _Arthur doubled his pace to get them inside as the temperature dropped._

 _Alfred looked skyward. "'Do not be sad,' the Creator whispered through the breeze. 'When People come they will not prize you for your plumage or savor your scorched flesh. Your beautiful voice is hoarse now. They will not call you a songbird. And so they will never cage you, Rainbow Crow. I have made it so_ _ **you**_ _will remain free..."_

It was hard _**not**_ to see correlations as to why Alfred would connect with that tale and relay it so masterfully. Like he knew full well how Rainbow Crow felt and considering all the things America's leaders had persuaded him to sacrifice...

" _See!?"_

 _Arthur didn't release him, but obligingly leant over, comically enough that Alfred giggled as he snatched up the dark feather._

 _He turned it over. "It's harder to see here because your sunshine is so moody but-wait! Here! See! Look!"_

 _Arthur nodded at the purple and green shine and made sure to compliment it as "Lovely."_

 _Blue eyes lit up at this "correct" answer and Alfred chatted happily—words tumbling out of his mouth. As if he'd been afraid to share such things before._

And it wasn't hard to remember why.

 _England was already agitated and trying not to step on an America, who was determined to be underfoot._

 _Little hands tugged at the buckles fastening England's boots. "Daddy, wet me come wif you. I can help. I pwomise, I can help. I did this. I have done this ere your awwival. See, John-"_

 _Green eyes flashed. "I do not want you near them. You've seen first hand what treachery they're capable of-"_

" _But I_ _ **know**_ _things. And if I go wif you they'll know it's not atliyóhslaˀ and-"_

 _Arthur stopped and whipped around and Alfred bumped into him. "Do not use that devil language, it's how they'll corrupt you."_

 _Alfred's blue eyes were huge in his small pale face._

 _Arthur struggled to reign in his temper. "You're an English subject and you'll speak English."_

Arthur ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

" _I hate him." There were angry tears in his colony's eyes._

 _Arthur's hand wavered as he held the teapot, because that was an awfully bold declaration from his tenderhearted Alfred._

" _Why? Whatever did Governor Andros do to earn such venom, my Sweet?" He resumed pouring his child some tea._

" _He-he said...he said…"_

" _Yes, darlingheart?"_

" _That we aren't Englishmen!" he sobbed. "He said-he said the M-magna...C-carter is-isn't for us and our rights...our rights…"_

Andros was a very unpopular figure in the colonies, but he was steadfastly loyal to the crown and an effective administrator.

Arthur had tried his best to promote a middle stance on that. That yes, the colonists were ultimately beholden to King's will in all things. But that didn't mean they were expendable to the Empire at all.

He tried to explain it in terms a child would understand, so he settled for parent and child analogies.

That England's government was a father to its colonies much as Arthur was to Alfred.

Only the child had pierced it to the bone, " _It doesn't feel like love."_

Alfred had been able to talk frankly about love then. In ways, he still wasn't able to now…

" _...English enough to be owned…"_ But never enough to be an Englishman.

So many mistakes…

He'd made so many mistakes…

But there was still time to fix them. He had to believe that.

The feather was still on the side table next to him.

Terrible memories had bled through as Alfred chatted about his earliest years.

Living in burrows and hollowed out trees…

Albion had memories like that...following Mother's death and various fights with Alba that spurred him to seek such accommodations free from brotherly authority.

It was different for Arthur. He'd nursed a burning resentment for all he'd lost and a determination that he would gain it back and more. And he made good on that.

Maybe he'd been wrong all these years, maybe Arthur was the real radical between them.

For Roanoke there'd been a weary acceptance that this was the life Sky Mother allotted to him. It was the price he paid for being born "wrong." And he made do—prizing the phosphorescent rocks and the soft scraps of deerskin Osha brought him...to make those dark, barren spaces tolerable.

Little fingers gathered shells from seashores and smooth stones and claws and bones and broken glass from sailors' bottles...because when the sun hit them right...these fragments of rubbish transformed them to treasures and a young America liked to think the right lighting did the same for him too...and an older America cursed the gloomy weather that never let him shine on England's shores.

It hurt Arthur to think of Alfred after 1812. Healing up...healing wrong...no...scarring...in a house filled with fragments…

Living with just "enough." Arthur could never live like that…

He'd survived during times of war like that...but he could never just...live...

On bits of lumber and metal and scraps…

Miscellaneous furniture and unfinished trimmings…

Chimneys that weren't used…

Rooms that never heard happy voices...

Against his will, he was reminded of when the Angles and Saxons arrived and called the walled Roman cities, like Londinium, tombs for the dead.

And Arthur couldn't bear for his Kirkland Hall, his son's tribute to him, to ever be a mausoleum.

Arthur felt another painful pull for him to make Kirkland Hall a happy, cozy place. He'd already begun knitting doilies for it. He'd thought about simply sharing the surplus of the ones he'd had but…

Fragments…

Scraps…

Castoffs…

The house was overdue for some present-day, personalized TLC as it were.

His brothers' teasings about "nesting" made his ears ring as he remembered them. He'd seen enough broody birds pluck at their breast feathers in efforts to try and make their nests softer and warmer.

Was it so terrible to want safe places for…

He glanced down at the warm weight in his arms.

For several hours, Alfred had bounded about with delight and accomplishment—feeling fulfilled for upholding his "promise" and vowing that he'd do even better at a later date.

It made his heart flutter to hear his son speak so cheerily of the future. Before he'd reference it abstractly in the context of future business deals or celebratory events like his Halloween galas.

This was a small, personal promise—maybe next week or the one after. And the immediacy of it just…

To know Alfred would be there...front and center in his life once more…

That they'd wake up in the morning and they'd break their fasts and there'd be no desks between them for business talk—no hashing out of international trade policies.

Following their flight, the child hungered for stories and games and movies and...Arthur…

Arthur's presence was sought for all. It made him reminisce about Alfred's colonial days when he'd been treated like the sun of the child's skies. There was something familiar about his zest...but Arthur couldn't pinpoint what it was precisely.

He reveled in every moment of it though. It was like cradling sunshine. Impossible and yet...happening and he wasn't about to question it or let go.

However, it wasn't long before the elder nation noticed the fever bright intensity of those blue eyes...

And now that the child was cuddled against his chest and sleeping, Arthur could hear the slight sniffle as he breathed.

Arthur exhaled in frustration and pulled the blanket tightly around the little one.

He should not have conceded to Alfred's wishes. His fall through the ice, the strain of a flight, his vulnerability to the season…

He was taking ill.

"It seems like a cold, sir," Nancy confirmed after he'd called her over.

Arthur glared.

"Rest should see it-"

He stood and left her in the room.

Angry as he was with himself for allowing this to happen, he blamed her too.

She was the professional, she should've detected it first.

As he neared their quarters, he crooned, "Love, how bout you put your jimjams on?"

"Huh? Why?" Alfred blinked sleepily and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

Arthur grimaced and fished out a handkerchief, "Blow."

Alfred obeyed, but insisted it was just dust allergies.

When Arthur decided to put his own pajamas on because he was feeling "tired," he was amused to see Alfred follow suit as he'd hoped he would. The boy always had a tendency of playing follow-the-leader with him whether it was in ordinary life or in lawmaking policies.

"See, I've got stripes too," the boy compared their sleeves.

Arthur nodded, "Very handsome on you."

The boy flashed a smile that showed off his missing tooth.

And Arthur hadn't realized his son had been self-conscious until that point—that he'd been careful to give close-lipped smiles or open ones that didn't expose the bottom row of teeth.

He'd have to work at chipping away that obsession with body image.

But for now, he'd ask what had been niggling at his thoughts since their little flight. "Love, who's Ginnie?"

"Virginia," Alfred responded immediately. "Virginia, my friend. Mine. I could feel it. The blood in her. Like no one before. Mine. Before I lost her. I don't know for sure what happened to her though...I lost her...and I forgot..."

And Arthur knew with frightful certainty who she'd been: Virginia Dare. His first colonist born in the new colony...and lost.

Alfred grinned. "She'd play with me. Everybody else was suspicious of me, but not her. I remember...I remember how they'd chase me away with stuff, but I always came back...I probably shouldn't have floated up to the loft and knocked on its window shutter but...there was lots of stuff I did back then because...I just didn't know better, yet."

Pain surged at that. Because, of course he didn't. He was just a baby. His insides writhed with a venomous hate for them...them who'd harmed his child...them who'd kept Arthur from him.

And it hurt to think... _she…_

He thought of all the times he'd knelt before her and kissed her ringed hand.

All the times he'd promoted her to doubting diplomats.

All the times he'd sat beside her and poked fun at the various actors attempting to do justice to Shakespeare's works.

All the times he'd fought in her defense, working to unravel various plots that dared to center around her and...

All the while she'd deceived him...delayed him...

She, who'd known how much he longed for…

He smoothed the lapels of the child's pajamas.

Beautiful bairn.

Precious.

He cupped the child's face.

Like he'd ever needed something as obvious as the sun to point it out.

* * *

Alfred was one of the last people left at the dinner table because Tex and Mattie had gone off to talk and bone broth was just so tasty and Arthur had been surprisingly enthusiastic about him having a third helping.

Though he'd had to accept a nasty spoonful of Robitussin too because Arthur was convinced he was catching something.

Even after their plates were whisked away, Arthur and Rhys continued sitting nearby. They were still discussing their citizens' growing distrust of governmental bureaucracy and fears of terrorist infiltration, when Alfred left.

Because yeah...he had enough of that of his own to worry about without his paranoia going to town here too. And right before he and Tex had to go the airport and take their chances.

Plus, he wanted to make sure Alistair wasn't still pissed off with him before he had to leave.

He knocked on the door twice before barging into the blue, white, and plaid decked bedroom.

But his uncle wasn't there. Though the dreaded haggis book was.

With a morbid fascination, he approached it from where it was laying almost innocuously on his uncle's bed.

The fiendish compilation of putrid recipes...he shuddered.

He didn't know all of his dad's childhood history, but he'd gleaned enough to know that Scotland was largely responsible for raising him. And considering the Scot's immunity to bizarre cuisine, it was no wonder why his Dad's cooking sucked so hard.

As he cautiously flipped through its pages, he realized it wasn't a cookbook at all. It was a—

"Gramarye," he breathed with a sudden forceful epiphany.

He let it fall from his hands and it bounced on the covers.

A Gramarye...but it wasn't a Grand Witch's…

It wasn't the one he needed to find.

The one that wasn't behind the chimney with his other spellbooks as it should've been if his instructions had been followed to a T.

The one he needed if he was to stand any chance against his former family who were far stronger magic practitioners than himself.

If he was to turn the tide of the war, he'd need to remove the opportunity for them to take advantage—magically.

He blinked...but they weren't...at war...anymore.

He shook his head, tried to force down the memories, and left the room. He'd ponder on it all later when he and Tex were Stateside.

Until then he wanted every remaining moment—

"There you are, love," Arthur's green eyes crinkled fondly. "We're about to start a movie and we-"

He perked up and rushed toward him.

But Arthur took a half-step back and gripped the wall.

And Alfred stopped short.

Maybe...he was coming on too strong…maybe it was good they were leaving and Arthur could have a break.

He'd thought Arthur was enjoying their time together, but maybe...

He rocked on his heels unsurely.

It was fine; he was an exhausting person to be around. He'd heard that plenty of times. He'd get a hug from Tex who never minded his exuberance and liked using his momentum to swing him around—especially now that he was smaller and there was less chance of property damage.

"My ankle's smarting," Arthur offered sheepishly.

Alfred looked up sharply. Had he landed him too hard after their flight?

"Twisted it the other day."

"...oh...I'm sorry."

"Trust a Yankee," Arthur chuckled as he picked him up, careful to compensate for his bad leg, "To apologize for something completely beyond his control."

It was s'posed to start a tip-for-tap about how Brits like Arthur would say "sorry" even if they were the one who was run into and how Americans would apologize for bad weather.

But…

He didn't want to argue…

Even if it was just pretend...

"If I'm too heavy...I can walk."

"Heavy," he scoffed and snuggled him—pressing his face into Alfred's hair. "I'd lose you to a high wind."

The movie was a bust. It was some foreign thing Mattie had the hots to see because Francis gave it accolades.

Alfred never trusted Francis's movie tastes. Ever. His people could never end them right. Either they'd conclude them despite tons of plot holes or just before things got good. OR...nothing happened. It'd be an hour and a half of...domestic NOTHING. Time Alfred could never get back.

He supposed if he was stuck in cinema hell and had to choose a French one, he'd begrudgingly watch _Les Visiteurs_ again _._

Texas and Scotland barely made it fifteen minutes in before they were snoring.

Lightweights.

Reilley and Rhys were looking over maps for the May Day trip and jotting down supplies they'd need to gather for it.

Mathieu was seated on the other side of Arthur. The two were drinking tea and chatting with an ease that suggested it was a familiar routine.

And Alfred could feel all the years he'd been gone.

Because there was a synchronization there that he just couldn't pick up on. They knew how to hush at certain dramatic moments and then comment about lines the characters made and supplement them with knowledge about philosophy and museums and...high art stuff that...flew right over Alfred's head.

And their eyes were so bright and animated...so glad to have someone to talk to…

He'd tried to join in a couple of times and they humored him but…

They were Louvre-Museum-visitor-people and he was a...well...Play-Doh Barber Shop dude.

It usually didn't bother him but…

The fact that he was being showed up so easily...so...lazily…

It was one thing if somebody outright beat him in an activity; scored more points than him in boxing, ran faster than him in running, chose the right number to bet on.

But this...

As the credits rolled, Mathieu noticed he was staring hard at him and smiled. He hesitantly reached over and gave his shoulder a brief squeeze. "I...I'm really glad you're alright, Al."

Tch.

"..."

Arthur looked at him expectantly. "Alfred?"

"..."

"Alfred," Arthur gave him a firm poke. "Have you naught to say?"

"...Thankssss," he hissed. Even though he'd have made it out of that pond by himself eventually...probably...maybe.

Arthur frowned.

Alfred crossed his arms and looked away. It wasn't fair that Mathieu had gotten to be the hero. Let alone in the right circumstances that somehow won him Arthur's approval. Alfred had saved plenty of people riiiight in front of the old goat and never received such blatant gratitude!

Arthur sighed and then made an exaggerated yawn.

Oh no! Alfred looked at the clock in horror.

10:00 p.m.

Arthur stood up and stretched. "Goodness! It's grown so late. I think we ought to retire for the evening."

"But-but-but!"

Arthur gathered him into his arms.

Mathieu gestured at the T.V. "Thank you, Arthur….Alfred. Al, I...I know those movies aren't high octane exciting, but...I really appreciate that you... Thanks."

Arthur sniffed, "Alfred can do without explosions for _**one**_ night. Besides, I was quite curious. I do want to see that other one though, if you're interested, _Woman in Gold_?"

Mathieu nodded attentively, "Yes. Or _Force Majeure_ -"

"Are there any fun movies?" Alfred demanded. "Feel good ones? Ones that'll be-be good?"

And keep his Southwestern brother awake? Tex had been snoring for the past half hour.

Arthur's lips twitched. "You know? I need someone heroic to watch _Shaun the Sheep_ with me."

Alfred's cheeks puffed with displeasure.

"Well, search no longer," Reilley laughed from across the room. "Rhys would be happy to watch it with you." He elbowed the Welshman. "Hell, I think he already owns it. Ordered it special and everything."

His uncle didn't deny it and went a rather interesting shade of pink.

Still, the worst part of the night came when his dad carried him upstairs, and he couldn't pretend tomorrow was forever away.

"I...I can sleep in my own bed," he forced himself to say.

Arthur looked a little stunned and murmured that he'd only been teasing earlier.

"We can watch whatever film you like tomorrow, Sweet. It's just good to take turns. It's fair."

Alfred chewed his lower lip. "I know. I just…" _can't hope to sneak off without you noticing if I'm riiiight next to you._

Arthur tucked him in and read him a few stories and told him several times, when Alfred kept asking for one more hug, that the door would be open if Alfred changed his mind or had a bad dream or anything.

Arthur also turned on three more nightlights to "lead" the way if needed.

It was several hours before Alfred felt it was "safe" to start moving. He closed and locked the door between their rooms and began packing.

He wrote a letter by nightlight that he hoped explained enough for there to not be hard feelings but that was also vague enough not to be a betrayal of Tex's plan.

His phone vibrated.

 _U ready, yet?_

Alfred typed back, _**Where u ?**_

 _Where 4 RThou?_

Alfred, glanced out his window and saw his brother give a wave from below.

It wasn't easy fitting his suitcase out of the window. Or floating down without dropping his stuff or banging into anything...which could set off red flags and panic for the household with fears of a break-in.

"Goddamn, that is a neat trick," Tex declared in a hushed tone of awe. "Now, let's get to gettin.' I gotta cab that'll meet us, but we gotta hoof it partway."

A cold wind blew and Alfred pulled on his gloves. "Right."

Alfred looked up at his bedroom, up at the glow from the nightlights that Arthur had left on for him, up at everything he was leaving behind.

His vision blurred.

"Al?"

He wiped his face roughly. "Right."

He soldiered on.

* * *

Arthur tossed and turned.

 _England swallowed nervously and tried to keep his expression calm and pleasant._

 _Somehow all the wards he'd raised had returned to childhood and were under his roof once more._

 _It should've filled him with euphoria but…_

 _His London flat was soooo small…and somehow he was the only adult present…_

 _No servants this time..._

 _No brothers…_

 _No...substantial staggering in the children's age ranges…_

 _He'd always been rather fortunate that he'd raised them in waves. Certain children had been older and available to watch the younger ones._

 _All of them were eight or under now._

 _New Zealand and Australia were fussy toddlers he was trying to feed._

 _Mathieu was off quietly reading to his stuffed animals._

 _Jamaica and Barbados were arguing over dolls._

 _Hong Kong, Wy, and Sealand were infants. He gave their cradles a rocking whenever he walked past._

 _More of his wards were in playpens that were stationed all over the room. He'd already counted five! Each with several little ones inside! Malta gave him an adorable smile around her teething ring._

 _He smiled back and tried not to panic._

 _He needed his brothers._

 _It was a difficult fact to accept. But he just couldn't care for all these precious darlings without them. He just couldn't allot the necessary time each one needed to be properly—_

 _He wrinkled his nose as one ward began undressing himself and waved his trousers triumphantly over his head._

 _The rascal._

" _Daddy! You're not watching me!" A seven-year-old America sulked from where he was sitting on the counter with his violin._

 _England sighed as he dipped a spoon into the baby food jar. "Love, Daddy's got to feed them right now." Or they'd all suffer from dual caterwauling. Jet had always been loud. But Jake, while usually quiet, had an impressive set of lungs when he put them to use._

" _But Daddy!"_

" _Maybe later, when I've put them down for their nap. Alright, poppet?"_

 _The doorbell rang._

 _He looked down at his food splattered clothes and apron. He was not fit to answer._

 _It rang again._

 _Bugger._

" _I got it! The Hero is on the job!" The violin was set down carefully and then the child hopped down and sped off._

" _Wait, Alfie!"_

 _He toweled his hands off only—Australia coughed. His heart stopped and he had to wait and make sure the little one wasn't choking._

 _To his great relief a few careful pats released a burp._

 _Only…_

 _He realized then that little socked feet hadn't come racing back._

 _His heart began to pound._

" _Alfie?"_

 _He didn't hear any voices. No back and forth. No annoying adult voiced salesman pitch. No saucy retort from his little Mr. Sassy Britches._

 _He hurried to the door._

" _Alfie?"_

 _The door creaked from where it was left yawning open to the outside world._

" _ALFIE?!"_

 _No sign of his son anywhere._

 _Stolen!_

"NO!" he screeched at the ceiling. He gasped for breath and then squinted at the clock.

Blast, his vision was acting up. He pulled open the drawer of his bedside table and fished out his glasses.

It was just a little past two; he checked his own forehead with a shaky hand. He'd sweated through his clothes. Was he coming down with something, too?

He noticed that Alfred had shut the door to his room. As he'd made a very big deal of keeping the door open on the off chance of more Gryms, it was odd and disconcerting.

Had Arthur's nightmares been loud? But...the child would've woken him up if he'd overheard...

"Alfie?" He called groggily.

He wrestled his way out of the twisted sheets and got out of bed and grimaced. The cold was doing his ankle no favors.

He'd taken three steps before realizing, he didn't sense his child at all.

He wrenched the door open, breaking its simple lock, and turned on the lights.

On the bed was a simple letter. So simple it tormented him with all the possibilities it opened.

 _Daddy,_

 _I hate leaving like this._

 _I'm not in trouble but I must go._

 _Forgive me._

 _Love,_

 _Alfred_

He made the emergency known.

* * *

Arthur tapped his fingers nervously from where he was sitting fully dressed at the kitchen table.

Mr. Gray and Nancy were in the next room over making calls to Parliament and the American Embassy to see if there'd been any emergencies across the pond.

If it wasn't for his dream, he'd have left immediately. If his brothers weren't ready in the next ten minutes, he'd still do so. To hell with the dream's warning about getting in over head...alone...

Footsteps approached.

"Texas?" He asked sharply as Scotland came toward him.

"No, he's gone too. Luggage and all."

Like Alfred.

It wasn't the fae, then.

"They left together," Rhys confirmed as he pulled on his boots. "The cameras caught them. I recorded it on my phone and sent you a link."

Arthur swiped his finger across his phone's screen.

The footage was slightly grainy but…

Arthur pursed his lips.

He watched as Alfred looked up, started to move away...and looked up one more time and rubbed his face with the sleeve of his jacket.

He dialed his son's phone number repeatedly, but the boy didn't answer.

Reilley carried the rubbish bin from Alfred's room down and they found earlier drafts.

 _I'm sorry to leave like this, please don't freak..._

 _I'm sorry I can't tell you why I'm just leaving like a weirdo in the middle of the night..._

 _I'm sorry because you're probably gonna be terribly upset and I'm sorry I..._

Arthur laced his fingers and sucked in a breath through his nose.

 _I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry._

It all reminded him of that draft of a letter they'd recovered from the chimney of Kirkland Hall.

 _I realize our many difficulties as of late make overtures challenging, but if you could have pity on me._ _I would have us meet by our tree._

 _...Forgive me..._

He looked down at the letter Alfred had left him this night.

 _Forgive me._

There'd been tear splatters on the earlier drafts. And this one, even this one, had a splotch at the top lefthand corner. Though it wasn't discarded because it didn't muss up the ink.

He ran a hand through his hair roughly.

He felt so afraid.

* * *

Arthur's boots squeaked as he ran through the airport lobby. He'd hoped to catch the Americans before they boarded but…

He was too late. He knew it from the moment he entered. He just didn't sense him.

Damnation!

"Inglaterra!"

He jolted and slid to a stop.

Antonio grinned and adjusted his carry on bag and walked over. "Whoa, you got my message so fast? And came to pick me up? Muchas gracias."

"Er…"

His brothers caught up then.

"Jaysus," Reilley wheezed. "Couldn't yeh have waited til the car stopped? Shit. And you wonder who Alfie gets the crazy from."

"Wow, you all came?" The Spaniard looked around surprised. "I feel so important."

"Uh."

"Oh."

"Ack."

"No," Rhys replied to the point. "Weren't you supposed to come later on the-"

"I didn't want mijo sneaking off," Spain shrugged as he re-tied his scarf. "Brrr. So chilly here."

"He already did. That's why we're here. To give chase," Rhys explained. "They ran off."

Spain's countenance darkened in a way that reminded England of naval wars. His green eyes narrowed and he swore lowly in Spanish before muttering, "My instinct was right. Those little...they must've snuck past me. I swore I saw a cowboy hat. I have been here since—you know what? I will make a call." He pulled his phone out and dialed and turned around for a moment. "¡Hola, Stuart, soy Antonio! Siento llamar tan temprano-"

England massaged the bridge of his nose while Spain relayed the situation.

Spain turned back around and flashed them a smile and whispered loudly, "He's looking into it." He nodded along as the call continued. "I know, yes! These shenanigans! Junior is determined to be the one who gives me gray hairs. Hm? Yes. He...did not tell you? W-wait? ¿Qué quiere decir con eso? Well, what does he sign? He doesn't actually sign 'Tejas' on his checks, does he?" Antonio raised an eyebrow. "You mean to say, if I see his Driver's License 'Tejas' is going to be printed across—Of course he has a name! A good Christian name! He is Antonio II." He continued in a deeper, darker tone. "Why is this funny?"

"He's a junior?!" Scotland snickered. "God. Tha's why he has such a chip on his shoulder. Tha's good training material, there. I will use that."

"Muchas gracias mi amigo," He thanked though he still sounded mildly annoyed as he ended the call. "Okay, they're heading to Tejas' hacienda. Stuart already received an email telling him he doesn't need to feed Americat today because they'll get to it."

"Which means we need to go…to?"

"Fredericksburg."

"No, not Alfred's home. Texas's-"

"It is Fredericksburg," he insisted. "Just...in Tejas."

There were four heavy eyebrowed looks of bafflement while they digested that.

Arthur's eyebrow twitched.

Spain explained slowly. "There's a Fredericksburg in Tejas….and a Fredericksburg in Virginia...and they live…"

"In both places."

Spain nodded enthusiastically, "Yes! They even have the same house numbers. Clever! Yes?"

"That's...so…"

"Them," Mathieu finished.

Arthur motioned Antonio to the counter so they could plan a course to pursue their wayward offspring.

He pulled Reilley over too.

The Irishman frowned. "Hey! Whatcha-"

"Do you have your runes?"

His brother blinked. "Aye."

"Pick us the best flight," Arthur requested quietly.

"Luck of the Irish?" He smirked.

"I need all the luck...any I can find…" He choked. "Any you'll spare...I'll take _anything_."

Reilley stopped smiling.

Pride?

No, he didn't have any left. Not when he could sense how loathe Alfred was to leave him. Not when he could feel both their hearts breaking with the distance.

* * *

Scotland was beyond exhausted, but if he didn't drive the rental...it meant handing the wheel to…

He looked over to his passenger seat where Arthur's bloodshot eyes were fixed nigh unblinkingly on the road.

No. He wanted to live. And the rules of the road never seemed to matter when Arthur had a ward to rescue.

He sighed and turned the volume up on a Rock n' Roll station.

It didn't help that he'd spent the nonstop flight to Austin unable to sleep because Reilley kept loudly chatting up some bird.

When he slowed at a redlight, he stretched his stiff shoulders.

But they were finally in Fredericksburg and he stared at the glow of a Walmart supercenter in the early morning light.

Rhys demanded Tums and rather than invite the consequences, he turned in.

It was 0900 hours and he needed caffeine. He was getting a headache from withdrawal.

It also wouldn't hurt to pick up some supplies before they crashed at Texas's home. They'd all left with nothing beyond the clothes on them, their wallets, and passports and whatever was in their pockets.

He parked the rental and looked up at the rear view mirror. Mathieu had been fairly quiet as the crisis unfolded.

"What say you, lad? Get you some maple syrup and Egos or pancake mix or summat?" Since it was very unlikely the Americans had enough food in their home for themselves let alone guests on such short notice.

Mathieu gave him a weak smile.

They all had to peel off a few layers before they headed in. The Texas "winter" climate was much warmer than where they'd left.

Arthur wrung his hands fretfully as Reilley and Antonio got shopping trolleys.

"We've got time for this," Alistair told him.

His younger brother looked like he was at his wits' end. "He just...I need to go to him. He feels so close and poor thing, he-"

"Arthur, food first."

"What if he's in danger? What if his government has threatened him? What if it's Osha? And then there's the matter that they didn't leave in a car. They trekked God knows how far. What if he has frostbite? What if his illness has worsened?"

"Arthur, food."

They browsed aisles and made selections.

Rhys stared at Alistair's breakfast choice. "You must be joking."

Alistair set the box of PopTarts in their cart. "Tex and Al got me hooked."

"They're children. They can get away with eating frosted garbage. You're a grown man, you must watch your-"

"Stop. Just. Stop. When I've had a full night's rest, you can nag me. But not now. Besides, it's not like I'm going to eat the whole box in one go. Dammit all, Arthur. Pick something."

Arthur looked miserable, "...not hungry."

Alistair glowered. "I ain't asking. I'm telling."

Green eyes flashed.

That was better.

Alistair forced himself to smirk which got his brother even more riled up.

But before the Briton could answer they heard a familiar drawl.

"C'mon Ally A'la Mode. It'll be great. We'll have a side of ribs. Ice cream. Freedom Fries. Scary movies. Video games: _Call of Duty_ or-or _Halo_? Or uh, _Mario_ -whatever-you-want."

And out from between the aisles, totally oblivious to them, strolled the Americans.

Alistair stared; they'd been just a half-step behind them the whole time! It meant Arthur had noticed his child missing almost immediately.

"And we can blast music as loud as we like. Or you can rollerblade inside, I don't care."

His nephew looked less than enthused by any of these prospects—lying down at the bottom of the basket portion of their shopping trolley and staring up at the ceiling of the superstore morosely.

"We can...do boardgames?" Texas sucked in a breath and forced out, "Play... _Bop it?_ "

"..."

"Ally, I ain't a mind reader like Captain Limey-pants. Whaddya need? Tell me, I'll get it."

Alfred frowned and sat up and his nose ran. "He's an Adbiral."

Scotland winced. Alright, Arthur was right. The laddie looked and sounded pretty peely-wally.

He couldn't say 'm' anymore.

"Ew," Tex grimaced. "Kleenex for sure." He grabbed a box off an endcap of an aisle and thrust it at the blond. "You get on in there. We're gonna pay for it. It'll be fine. They'll understand."

Alfred opened the box and blew his nose with a tissue. "He's an Adbiral."

"Lil' Dimetapp'll fix that up."

"He's an Ad-"

"Al, I don't care. I'm being sarcastic."

Alfred shook his head and stared down at his phone and he sniffled, "He kept calling. Can't I just give hib a text so he knows-"

"Hey! We made a deal." He plucked the phone out of his brother's hands and pocketed it. "No phone-answering for 48 hours. You wrote a note. That's more than what I did."

"You didn't leave Spain a note!?" Alfred gasped and gestured with his hands. "The horns!"

"I ain't gonna get the horns!"

Spain sighed from Scotland's other side and crossed his arms.

Alistair looked at the Spaniard's dark green eyes. O, laddie was gettin' the horns alright.

"Look, don't ask me questions you know the answer to. Besides, I don't see what the big deal is. You've cut out on him plenty of times. Why the sad violins now?"

"You...don't get it." Alfred raised up on his knees and gripped the edge of the cart.

"Nope! Sure don't."

"...I had to go...and he wasn't even bad at be this tibe…" Alfred whimpered and rubbed at his eyes.

Tex lifted the cart on its first two wheels and brought it down—forcing Alfred to sit down. "Al, stop. I've held my peace as long as I could, and I can't no more. You are diving in too deep, too fast. A break'll be good for you. You're giving him WAY too much credit."

"Don't say that."

"You gotta hear it."

"Tex-"

"Cuz yer forgetting-"

"He _**loves**_ -"

"-All the years he kicked you to the curb-"

"No, he-"

"All the times he-"

"Loves-"

"-Couldn't care less!"

"Stop saying-"

"Oh yeah, he loves you. He loves you, alright. He loves you best when he needs something the most!"

"Please, don't say that!"

"Money!"

"Stop!"

"Guns!"

"Stop it!"

"Alliances!"

"STOP!"

"He always comes round when his economy fluctuates and he's looking for the Special Relationship to bale water out of his sinking rowboat-"

"Texas!?"

"And now there's some Referendum comin' and his banks are freaking and lookie who he's cuddling up to? Who he's hoping will trade with him if he-"

"Shut up!"

"Centuries of putting you down. Spitting on you when he could-"

"Your dad's no angel either!" Alfred shot back as his shoulders heaved.

"HELL no. He's still all about himself. Me. Me. Me. He's like one of them AA people trying to make amends and convince _**himself**_ he's not an asshole."

"You heard theb. They bade it so I could get work when I was over there and-"

"No. Just. No. I don't accept that. And I won't let you, neither. I know what that means. It means they knew where you were. They coulda gone in any tavern you were scrubbing down tables and said ' _Hey! It breaks my heart to see you workin' your ass off. I love you, come home. I'm sorry I've been a prick. I'll stop. Come home. Please.'_ That's it. Tha's all they had to do, partner. That's the bare-fuckin-minimum. They didn't. And you deserve _**more**_ than that and I won't let you take less."

Alistair let out a whoosh of breath like he'd been elbowed in the gut.

"-Lys! Alba!"

He stared dumbly as Reilley grabbed at him with a wild hand.

"Scot! Scottie, need you! We can't hold him much long-"

Gray eyes watched as Reilley, Rhys, and Mathieu were trying...and failing to subdue an unhinged Arthur that wanted Texan blood. He moved to help. Put him in a headlock, used all his weight as a nation but...

God...when England was raging. He watched in horror as his youngest brother managed to pull ALL OF THEM forward. Their shoes squeaked against the floor as they were moved.

Antonio briskly walked in front of them, "Tonio, Alfred. Go. Now."

"P-papi?! The hell are you—" Brown eyes widened as he registered them all. "How in the hell?!"

Alfred's jaw dropped as caught sight of the rest of them. His expression brightened hopefully. "D-daddy?"

The word was like a starting pistol.

Arthur lurched forward and they scrambled to keep hold of him.

Alfred stood up in the cart and looked at them in bewilderment—wiping at his teary, snotty face. "W-why are you? Let hib go! Dad?!"

Spain took his spot between them and the Americans. "Go, mijo. We'll talk later."

Well, Alistair thought. Maybe it was good to have a former enemy and rival here. At least he understood that there was no reasoning with England when he got to this point; he was a mad rocket and spitting furious.

"What in tarnation?"

Antonio pulled his coat off and cracked his neck and knuckles. "I will hold him off while you escape."

Tex looked to his father and then to Arthur and then to Alistair who mouthed: Run, while you bloody can.

That little tirade…

Uncomfortable truths aside...for them all...

It would've been a hard thing for Arthur to hear even in a sound frame of mind. After pulling a frantic overnighter...

The boy slowly nodded. He pulled Alfred out of the basket, threw him over his shoulder, and turned tail.

"NO! DADDY!" His nephew shrieked and stretched his arms out for his father. "Tell him he's _**WRONG**_! DADDY! DAAADDDDY!"

Alistair swore softly. Yes, he knew the boy was sick and unsettled and upset but...

Goddamn it, Al. Anything but that! Anything...but...that.

It wasn't a human sound of rage and pain that escaped Albion then.

Scotland glanced down at his feet. He'd dug his heels in and...he was still moving forward and the cement was cracking under them.

Spain settled into a fighting stance and nodded that he was ready.

And thank God for that, because they couldn't hold him.

On the count of three, they let England go.

* * *

Read & Review Please : DDD


	25. Chapter 25

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hetalia. Or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Or McDonald's. Or Netflix. Or Walmart/Wally World.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Fun fact: the U.K. has a history of boxing and Spain...doesn't really. Rhys being a boss. Hardcore shopping. Stuart. Unexpected hosting responsibilities. More family drama. Some violence. Some fluff. All that good stuff.

 **AN:** Survived! : DDD Thanks for lasting through the hiatus. Good Lord, 15 units. What was I thinking? Madness. Special thanks to FlowerFoxWings for translating some phrases into Spanish for me. Hope you guys enjoy this chap and Merry Christmas! : DDD Have safe travels everyone! I hope you all survive your family functions and feast and make merry! : DDD

 **Chapter 25: Yeh Earned This**

* * *

Arthur charged forward and time seemed to slow as Antonio blocked him.

No.

Nononono.

He had nightmares like this.

Ever since the wendigo fiasco...and then with Grym.

They'd used to be reserved for his other colonies. Because America was such a robust brute...tall and strong and vigorous...England could trust him to fight his way out of most perils as long as he was conscious.

Only the past year had shown…

America could be outmaneuvered.

His strength….

Arthur remembered the bruised injection sites, the emaciated limbs…

Could be calculated for...strategized against.

He could be starved...weakened.

His will…

He remembered the boy's rage and pain in thinking himself unwelcome in his father's house during Yuletide...tricked by Grym into seeing cruelty where it didn't exist.

His will could be misdirected…could be whipped into a narrow-sighted fervor that prompted him to charge across lanes of traffic.

Arthur had nightmares about that, too.

About being too late.

Racing down the sidewalk because he took his eyes off the boy for just a second. A damnable second and missing the back of the child's collar—fingers brushing against the fabric—a half-step too late to pull him back to the safety of the curb.

He had nightmares about being unable to move. Where he was wounded in the forest, both achilles tendons severed through by a bone knife and he couldn't give chase.

And he could do nothing but watch a smug Iroquois steal away with his son. His son staring at him like he couldn't believe Arthur had failed him.

And he knew why.

O he knew why those eyes haunted his dreams.

They hadn't been properly closed following that terrible car crash and when Arthur had finally found him...torn through that bloody body bag….the tache noire de la sclérotique had not altered the expression.

And it made him look so terribly young. So vulnerable. So damned surprised and horrified and sad and resolved but...afraid. And he'd been all alone...no one to comfort him...to soften it at all.

He'd stared down into that face and...

 _How could you let this happen to me, Daddy?_

Arthur threw a vicious elbow but Antonio gripped his arm. He twisted himself free. He moved again, but the Spaniard wouldn't let him pass.

Damn him! Delaying him!

He threw a punch that was blocked and then another.

They were getting away! Though Alfred was still reaching for him! Calling for him, though Arthur could hardly hear over the angry rush of blood roaring through his ears.

He glared at the Texan.

How dare he say such things! Such awful things!

It brought to mind that night when the boy had set him up, after America's going away party for Calm Waters Clinic.

He was such a simpleton most of the time. The idea of him setting a trap seemed comical. But he'd gone and done it again. He made you underestimate the damage he could do. Because he never made intricate plans. Like this one.

All he had to do was be a whisper of doubt.

And that was enough.

It burned.

That Arthur's words were...how did Blue say it?

" _...you were so well-spoken,_

 _you could make anything sound beautiful._

 _But words are just air._

 _So all of your promises were empty from the start."_

His words were empty while Texas's were...

He made to shove Spain away altogether, but the man caught his arms and braced his weight against him.

Damn him! Damn him and his spawn!

England snarled and pivoted—hurling the man into the endcap of an aisle. Antonio gripped his shirt in one hand and delivered a punch with the other.

Arthur tasted blood.

Fine.

So he wanted to be dealt with first.

Fine.

Him first. Then his whelp.

Green eyes narrowed.

They'd pay dearly for this.

* * *

Texas slung his little brother over his shoulder and abandoned their cart.

Usually, Texas prided himself on being one who could roll with the punches, but…of all the things he could've expected for calling his lil' bro out in a Walmart...it wasn't this.

Or that Spain was willing to take one for the team.

No that-not that he was part of the team!

Cuz he wasn't!

Dammit, stuff was gettin' complicated.

This was exactly what he was trying to avoid.

There was a messiness that came with letting other people into their circle.

Of course, he wanted his little brother to have bonds with others, had worried about him for a long time cuz he'd shown so little interest in having friendships...even super shallow acquaintance-ish friendships. Ya know, like knowing the cashier or clerk's names and saying howdy to folks when they were out of uniform?

But he'd gone off the deep end since that hex of his had ended—he was snuggling up to them that had hurt him worst in the first place!

Now, Tex was all for redemption stories; his and Al's road to familial harmony took a hell of a lot of paving, construction, and more paving. But...these folks had to prove they were people who'd never throw Al under the bus! Ever again! Ever!

England, his brothers...hell, Canada wasn't too high in his book right now, either.

There were centuries' worth of backlogged crappy things they'd done to his poor brother. And that shit needed to be addressed.

They were trying to pull a 'Get Outta Jail Free Card' because Al was such a softie deep, deep, deep down.

Well, no, sir! That's what Al had Tex for when his bleeding heart got the better of him. If they thought they were gonna bypass Tex and all his concerns…

They were gonna find out firsthand what a hardass he could be when things didn't meet his satisfaction. There was a reason Al hated letting him be the one to do the customer service surveys...unless they totally mucked it up. Then Al handed the reigns over no problem.

He ran through the maternity wardrobe and zigzagged through shoes and accessories until he eventually viewed cashiers.

And if Tex's worst fears about his brother's side of the family were confirmed. And they _**were**_ just out to use America because of his wealth or prestige or power as a nation…

They'd just go back to the way things were before...when it was just the two of them and they'd shut 'em all out. What could be wrong with that?

He fondly thought over all their misadventures. All the crazy stuff they got into that had stitched them so close together now. All the good times and bad times and wild times...

He wanted to get Al away, just the two them, just for a little while. Just so they could remember the feel of freedom. Of going wherever the hell they wanted, whenever they wanted.

If they left right now…

Right now…

Took nothing...

Paid in cash so there was no trace...

And just drove all day, all night, up to those woods so Alfred could explore them for that portal.

Al would heal up along the way...

Tex slowed down as he approached the exit cuz he didn't want anyone accusing him of shoplifting.

Unfortunately, in his scramble to get them away, he hadn't paid much to attention to Al and realized belatedly that Al was still reaching for...someone.

Texas looked over his shoulder and stared in mouth-open-shock as Wales vaulted over a shopping cart like an Olympic hurdler, much to the shock of the family pushing it.

The man slid to a stop beside them.

Texas faltered, "Um, um, uh."

He stood by dumbly as Rhys pulled Alfred into his arms, settled him on his hip, and then pulled out a small notepad and began jotting things down.

"Uh?"

Was he getting a citation?!

Rhys then handed the pad and his wallet to Texas.

"Alfred and I will be waiting on a bench outside at the front."

The automatic doors whooshed as they went through.

Tex looked down at the paper.

Oh, it was a list of things to get Al. The only problem was...he was gonna have to head back in and brave a sequel to the Anglo-Spanish War.

Al _**was**_ sick though and he could really use this stuff.

And he'd gone and upset him a lot on top of that.

And if he marched out now, he'd seem like the biggest, uncaring jerk.

Yeah, they could swing by Walgreens, and avoid all the hoopla here, but if it wasn't having sales on what they needed, it could be pricey. Plus, he wasn't sure if he could shake Wales off. It appeared he was quite a sprinter.

Tex released a long breath, pulled his hat down so it'd be firm on his head, and then walked determinedly back into the fray.

They'd get Al healed up and _**then**_ make their escape.

'Sides this was on Rhys's dime and he might just grab a few more things as a finder's fee.

* * *

Mathieu watched aisle rows rip free from where they were bolted down as the two Old World Nations battled each other—slamming one another into shelving whenever they could.

He ought to have followed Rhys but...he just couldn't tear himself away. It was like watching titans fight.

They were both roughly the same height, and on first glance it would look like Antonio (who had a more muscular build) would have a clear advantage but…

Mathieu winced as England kneed Spain between the legs and flipped him over his shoulder.

England was just mean.

The Briton grinned nastily as he leaned over his fallen opponent.

Though…

Spain used the moment to land a punch square in the other's face.

Spain was no lightweight, either.

It was no wonder why France had always come back so injured from any skirmish with them while the three battled for supremacy in the North American continent. Or why the Netherlands had to bow out early.

Mathieu stared as the men slugged it out spitting blood and curses at each other.

Scotland shook his head and snorted, "So much for the 'Anger Management' sessions."

Reilley looked less amused, "I don't...know the procedure for this one. Do we call someone? Store security? Homeland security?"

They watched as several more aisles domino-ed into each other—spilling the contents of their shelves onto the floor.

Mathieu watched one lean precariously into another shelving unit and gasped on seeing Texas there, doing a military crawl with a plastic basket—checking various medications that had been dumped onto the floor.

"Numpty," Scotland followed Canada's line of sight and sighed. "England's gonna get a hold of him and he's gonna deserve it. Baiting him like this. He's gonna shake him like a pitbull with a ragdoll."

On finding what he needed, Tex scrambled out to a cart. He tossed his plastic basket into the cart and then used the cart like a scooter—rolling across from one side to the other.

Spain noticed and his green eyes bulged. He physically held England's head to keep him from noticing too.

Though, it cost him.

Arthur worked Antonio's ribs hard with a flurry of punches.

Still, the Spaniard only released him once his son was gone.

Scotland brought over some chairs from the furniture section and invited Canada to sit down.

Canada supposed this was worst part of it all...it just didn't end. He checked his watch and looked back up.

Both combatants were in terrible condition.

Had to feel horrible. Arthur was visibly limping. Spain's arm looked like it might be dislocated—it wasn't moving right.

They were both breathing hard and their faces were contorting in pain.

And yet, they continued to charge at one another and hits continued to land.

Mathieu looked over at Alistair and Reilley for some kind of sign that this was in its final period or something.

Alistair crossed his arms. "They're gonna fight, laddie. They're gonna fight and fight and keep fighting, till they can't fight no more. Til one or the other or both of 'em just fall and can't get up. Tha's how they've always done it."

Reilley sighed, "Open field, medieval. Long as they could keep going. For as long as they were standing...they'd keep up the morale of their men. Just be glad, boyo. They don't have swords. Trust you me, this would be a much bigger mess."

And the ground was a mess already. Products scattered or leaking, mouthfuls of blood and trickles from scratches splattering onto the floor, that was sometimes cracked when one or the other landed hard.

Mathieu thought things were going bad when Walmart workers and security guards began trying to talk them down from a distance with the overhead PA system and a blow horn.

And then he realized that it was all just a stall tactic...and the police arrived.

* * *

Texas stared, "Come again?"

After shopping under duress, fiddling with the self-service station (Al was so much better at using those than him), and trying to keep a low profile and slip out before the cops were called, now he had to deal with more demands from the unwanted tagalong.

"Drive us home," Rhys repeated imperiously.

"With...you? Uh, I don't think there's room in the truck, we got...groceries...now."

Rhys didn't blink.

And Alfred whined that he wanted to go home already.

When he unlocked the passenger door, Rhys observed, "You don't have a booster seat for Alfred."

"No, Snobby, I don't."

"Well then, you'll need to go back in and purchase one."

"What?! You want it, you get it."

Tex and Al could then peel outta here without the wet blanket.

Rhys looked down at Alfred, "Alfred, I fear your brother's obstinacy means we must venture back in to ensure your safety on the road."

"Nooo" was the low moan. Alfred pressed his head into Rhys's shoulder. "I'b gonna throw up. I don't want ev'ybody to see be."

Rhys shrugged. "It's a normal reflex. If you must be ill, then you must-"

"Fine!" Tex threw his hands up. "Fine! I'll head back in-"

"Leave the keys," Rhys ordered. He nodded at the cart, "I can get the groceries situated."

"Whatever."

After stomping back in there, grabbing a stupid booster seat and having a nervous girl ring him up as officers began filing into the building, he stormed back into the parking lot.

Had to use his pocket knife to open the damned thing and then they had to shift the seats forward and then back to get it to fasten in correctly, before they could finally get in and be off.

And because Al was in the middle seat now instead of next to the window, when he did throw up, he had to use the barf bag from the glove compartment rather than just rolling down the window.

Which meant they had to hold onto the gunk until they were home.

And once they were home, the Welshman got bossier—demanding to know where supply closets and linen closets and specialty electronics were.

Tex set his hat down on the counter. "Look, it ain't the plague. We just gotta let him rest it off. I'll fix him some soup and-"

Rhys glared, "You don't have a humidifier?"

"Why...would I have that?"

The man's eyebrows twitched furiously and then he asked through clenched teeth, "I trust you have a shower?"

He pointed down the hall.

Rhys gave a tight nod and steered Al to it.

In the meanwhile, Tex put away the groceries and cooked up a can of chicken and stars soup.

When it was ready, he switched the burner off and went to round Al up.

Through the crack of the open door, he saw Rhys was kneeling beside Alfred, who was leaning heavily against him.

"There you go, now. Good. It'll help loosen the congestion. When you're up for it, I can show you some yoga poses and breathing techniques that can help you as well."

Tch. Yoga.

"You will break him like a popsicle stick, if you force him to do yoga," Tex scoffed from the doorway. "Soup's ready."

Rhys turned the shower off and helped maneuver Al back to the kitchen.

Rhys seemed to take a good look around then. "You...where's your seating?"

Tex felt his ears heat up a bit as he poured soup into one of Al's favorite _Marvel_ bowls. It was easy buying packs of those plastic bowls and plates. It was sure to improve his baby brother's mood.

"Why...just...just look at this place?!" He then garbled out something in Welsh that Tex was pretty sure wasn't flattering.

Yeah, the decor left something to be desired. But he hadn't been planning on having guests!

There were two bean bag chairs, a mess of wires leading to various video game consoles, and two adjustable TV dinner standing trays leaning against the wall. There were towers of DVDs and VHS cassettes and Blu-rays with their corresponding machines stacked up on each other under where the TV was mounted onto the wall.

Tex tried not to flush as he gestured back at the kitchen, whose granite bar had two barstools. "You can grab one o' those."

Embarrassing as it was for him, it was kinda funny that this was the thing that really got Rhys's goat.

"How on earth are you supposed to entertain?"

"I don't," Tex snapped back. "What part of me playin' dead for all these years, are you not getting? I don't play host to other nations."

"W-what about humans?! Government officials? Good lord," Rhys stared at a crack in the ceiling which signaled water leakage….yeah, that must've happened while they were gone. "Health inspectors?!"

Tex and Al shrugged. He'd had a handful of disasters (natural and self-inflicted) which had kinda led to... this...

"For God's sake, how do you not have a sofa?!"

Alfred was careful to look down and away and Americat provided a distraction by bounding into the room then.

"Where is your furniture, Texas?"

Tex shrugged as he set up a TV tray for Al at his preferred beanbag, "I...I got stuff in storage that I just haven't gotten around to…"

"Pretty kitty," Alfred cooed and scratched Americat under the chin.

"Simply ridiculous. Simply-simply, Alfred, we're going to a hotel-"

"Whoa, there! You are overreacting-"

"This no place to convalesce. Just look at all the dust!"

"I will grab a mop and the vacuum. Chillax! We just haven't been here for a while."

"I thought Stuart was watching over the house for you-"

"Well, yeah. Americat and his litter box, I don't use Stuart as an all-out maid and-wait…"

Both Americans turned to stare.

Al looked up from his bowl. "How...did you know Stuart was…"

Rhys didn't quite falter but seemed to realize he'd revealed too much. However, he was too riled up to hold back now. "W-well, Stuart and Spain keep in contact and when the two of you terrified us by disappearing in the middle of the night-"

Stuart!

Brown eyes narrowed!

He and Stuart were gonna have to have a hard talk about breaches of confidence.

The doorbell rang and Tex groused as he answered it, "Speak of the devil and he appears, Stuart."

The man was on his porch with a phone at his ear. "Captain Jones, sir. I need you to accompany me across town. Immediately."

"Like hell."

Stuart handed the phone over which Tex reluctantly accepted.

"Huh? No, I-Well, they eavesdropped on a private conversation. No. I. No. What?! Now that's just...don't, don't hang up! Dammit." Tex thrust the phone back into Stuart's hands. "I don't get why I hafta to be the one to bail 'em out!"

"I believe they would like you to issue an apology for providing the...catalyst that...produced the escalation."

"Riiiight." Tex turned back to the house and hollered, "Al, I gotta go out! Al?!"

"He cannot yell right now, he is ill! You imbecile!"

Stuart's eyes widened a fraction. "Wales, sir?"

"Yeah, ol' Snobby's here."

"You...got him to yell…"

"Yeah, I know. Kinda proud of myself. He's usually the quiet, condescending type. Apparently, not having a sofa just...is the straw that breaks his grouchy-old-man-back."

Tex walked over to the government issued, black van parked in his driveway. "Look, how much am I gonna have to shell out to get 'em all out?"

"There won't be a bond," Stuart offered as he walked over to the driver's side and gave Tex a pointed look.

Tex grumbled and reluctantly walked back around to the passenger side.

Stuart fastened his seatbelt and waited for Texas to do the same. "The government is intervening on their behalf and apparently, the incident-"

"Is that what we're codifying it as? The incident?" Tex raised an eyebrow. "The Wally World Incident?"

The human adjusted his glasses and then turned the ignition and released the brake. "Yes, sir. There will however be a joint-effort to repay the property damage."

"Of course," Tex grumbled. "...always make us foot the bill."

"There is the matter of surveillance cameras as well."

"Ugh, everybody's going high-tech."

"Yes. So they've already asked for them."

"Stuart?"

"Sir?"

"Why the hell did you tell them where we were?"

The man blinked, "I was...unaware that you-"

"You should assume that anything we do or tell you or you learn is confidential."

The man looked semi-amused. "Really?"

"Dammit, Stuart. I'm serious."

"I apologize that you feel upset over my actions regarding this sit-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. That's not a real apology. I know that apology. I've given that apology. It's almost as bad as the ' _It's not you. It's me. I'm tryin' to find myself.'_ No. You don't tell folks stuff about us."

Stuart frowned.

"Your job is to assist us, _Assistant_."

"Actually, sir. That is a small feature of my job description. My main objective is to minimize damages of all natures, ensure smooth relations between you and your fellow nations, keep tabs on your behavior and stability—positively influencing it when I can—and reporting back."

Tex blinked.

"Since the...wendigo operation...and General Jones's...downsizing...the matter of age and maturity has been forefront in discuss-"

"Hey, Al is very competent!" Texas hissed. "He doesn't need you guys spying-"

"Yes, for his age. He is hypercompetent, as are you, in various situations."

"My list is shorter though, I'm sure."

Stuart's lip twitched. "It has brought up...concerns."

"Al-"

"About you both."

"...huh?"

"Both of you have been treated as personifications since the founding, or in your case, the annexation of your land into the United States. Without thought to your physical or mental age and the effects that-"

"So? I'm eighteen. I can pass for twenty-five if I got a beard. Thirty, if it's a mountain man one."

"You were even younger, fifteen? Sixteen? When you joined?"

"What's that got to do with anything!?"

"It's triggered questions about whether either of you have been…raised. Properly."

"Tch. We can take etiquette lessons if that's what's got y'all bent outta shape."

"It has been mentioned that you and your brother are very...different from other nations in how you structure your priorities. And the reality that you and he essentially raised yourselves... seems to answer why that may be."

"And?"

"No resolutions have been made. These are simply discussions they're having right now."

"And you snitched on us to them and our dads, because? Why?"

"They're resources you should take advantage of."

"Stu-"

"If I can relay reports proving your emotional stability and the presence of a support network of nations and family members, whatever step the government decides to take will be significantly less drastic."

"...That's ominous."

"Yes, sir. I thought so, too."

To Tex's surprise his dad was happy to see him.

"Mijo!" Antonio cheered as hurried over to the bars. Mathieu, Reilley, and Alistair were still seated on a wall-side bench behind him.

"P-papi," he greeted and tried not to grimace.

His father had suffered a broken nose which, from the looks of it, he'd already straightened back out and mopped up, but there was still dried blood around his nostrils and he was missing a front tooth. His arm was in a sling and his shirt was all torn up and stained.

Arthur was being held in a separate cell. Alone. One of his eyes was swollen shut and he had a split lip. Yet, the one venomous green eye watching him made it clear that he was still dangerous. And everybody knew it.

There was a lot of paper signing, and officer warnings, and Tex had to read off the apologies (to the police department, and the U.K., and Spain, and Canada) that Stuart forwarded him on his phone.

He made sure to give England a wide berth and picked up that Spain deliberately moved to block him from the Briton's view whenever possible.

Alistair and Reilley fought over who got to have the front passenger seat, which meant Tex wound up next to Spain, who seemed to think he deserved a hero's welcome for his troubles.

Meanwhile, Canada had a hundred yard stare and Tex had to buckle his seatbelt for him.

"I've never been arrested before."

"You must be getting more noticeable," Reilley suggested, despite having Alistair's hand over his face.

"But I've never…"

"Really?" Tex questioned doubtfully. "All the illegal substances you've done and you've never-"

"I am _not_ a druggie!" Mathieu snapped.

"...oh...that's not what Al tells me."

"That's because Al, no-just...no...I'm not getting into this."

"O, lighten up jailbird," Tex grinned. "It just means you were finally a part of somethin' interestin' and you oughta-"

"Oh? So interesting things get people arrested?" Mathieu glared. "Are you speaking from experience?"

"Mijo?"

What would Al, say in a moment like this?

"I...refuse to confirm or deny anythin' without a lawyer present."

* * *

Arthur's insides continued to seethe as he waited for the front door to be unlocked.

Stuart had wished him luck and patience before driving off. And he'd need it. He'd need a lot of it.

No sooner than he heard an affirmative click, he shoved past the Texan—knocking him hard into the door.

"¡Oye! ¡Inglaterra!" Spain growled as he steadied his son."¡Mira por dónde vas!"

It took so much willpower not to dash that boy into the pavement like he deserved.

The only thing keeping him was…

His expression softened as he found Alfred nearby in a beanbag chair cuddling with Hop and a box of tissues and trying to avoid Rhys, who was desperate to spoon him some medicine.

"Come on, chwb. This will help you."

Arthur sighed and limped forward. "If he's being stubborn, you have to give him hon-"

Alfred looked up and gasped, "Dad."

Or apparently, you had to use the element of surprise. Rhys forced the spoonful in then.

Alfred swallowed and gagged and gave Rhys a wounded look.

Arthur eyed the supplies that Rhys had rounded up in a large cake sheet tupperware container. He picked up a bottle of honey shaped like a bear.

Alfred sniffled. "You're all beat up. Are you okay?"

"O' course, love. Spain's never learned how to throw a proper punch. Doesn't know the first thing about boxing. Daddy's fine."

"You...you just wait…" Spain muttered darkly out of the corner of his mouth as he passed by. "Te doy una hostia que te visto de torero."

Tex sighed, "Look, Papi, let's get you some ice for your...everything."

Rhys relinquished the spoon to Arthur, and Arthur filled it up with honey which Alfred gratefully accepted and gestured for one more.

"Two spoonfuls for one dose of medicine? Two?"

Alfred licked his lips, "We have to adjust for inflation."

"Well, I don't approve but I suppose we can make exception for the day you've had."

While he poured a second serving, Arthur glared at Texas and gritted through his teeth with every ounce of indignation in his being, "You...are... _ **WRONG**_."

"Eep." Tex nearly dropped the ice tray.

Alfred sat up straighter and pointed, "See?! You see. Tex? Told you so. I..."

Arthur knelt down beside him.

"I told hib so."

Arthur nodded gravely, "One two three...one two three." He guided the spoon in. "Good."

He pushed sweaty fringe from the child's forehead and frowned at his brother, "Temperature?"

"Fevering," Rhys confirmed. "I need to wet another washcloth."

Arthur nodded, "Sounds like you could use some bedrest, Darlingheart. How about I read you…" He blinked and noticed there were no books in sight. " _Tell_ you some stories?"

Alfred shook his head, "TV."

Well, it was big enough to be sure.

"We have Netflix."

"Oho."

"O aye, ya got Netflix. But where the hell is your furniture?" Alistair demanded as he looked around at the sparse space.

"We weren't expecting company," Tex replied in exasperation.

"Is it in the basement?"

"Uh, there are some cots there."

"Where is it, then, lad?"

"Down the hall to your left, you'll see a janky rug, under it, is the hatch to the storm cellar where you'll find-" At the concerned looks of the rooms' occupants, Tex cracked a smile, "Yeah, storm cellar. Well Gents, welcome to Tornado Alley."

* * *

Arthur ignored the twinge in his ankle and patrolled the house with a hawkish eye while Alfred kipped in his chair. He wanted to know the layout in case the boys tried anything else later.

It was a rather grand Spanish Colonial ranch house set far into the rural fringe of the area. However, all the splendor was in the architecture.

Reilley and Alistair hefted the spoils of their search of the basement. The venture produced two more bean bag chairs, several sleeping bags, a faux-leather ottoman trunk, two cots of dubious age, and a Keurig machine.

Reilley shrugged a shoulder. "There's a fridge full of beer down there and a pool table. So I can't say it's all bad."

Rhys had plenty to complain over.

"He bought lobsters." Rhys's eyebrows twitched as he looked over a receipt. "Lobsters?! I'm not made of money."

Alistair rolled his eyes. "You gave your wallet to a teenager. Yeh earned this."

"I couldn't abandon Alfred."

Arthur found the guestrooms were either empty or like barracks with military bedding that reminded him of WWI.

And there seemed to be a...recovery room of sorts, stocked with crates of medical supplies and an ominous freestanding industrial sink that had...stains. The bed was a hospital issue that looked straight out of the 1940s.

Great.

If there was anything that put him on edge, it was memorabilia from the World Wars and the boys' tendency to avoid hospital aid.

Still, what really bothered him was that he couldn't find Alfred's room.

Mathieu approached from the other side of the hall, "Snooping as well?"

No use denying it. "Have you seen Alfred's room?"

"There's only one master. Two beds there."

It echoed what the rest of the house seemed to say, that there were two people who lived here and to hell with anyone else.

The master bedroom was almost comically split in half with Alfred's side being painted white and Texas's side being blue.

The oak dressers matched and their gun cases matched...and that was it.

Arthur walked nearer to Alfred's bed. There was a corkboard with pictures of the two of them and contest ribbons and movie tickets tacked to it.

Alfred's side was a good deal homier than the room Arthur had known in the Virginia estate. There was a cubby wall with various knicknacks and toys.

And it said something for Texas that those quirks which, for a seventeen year old, seemed particularly odd, didn't faze him.

There was a Lego creation on a shelf on the older boy's side (that he'd have never made given his loathing of Legos) that spelled out TEXAS in red, white, and blue blocks.

Arthur left the room and explored some more, briefly wandering through the arches of the Spanish styled courtyard that had a fountain in desperate need of water until he noticed Antonio had brought the lad out there.

He batted down his wrath.

For Alfred.

He told his boiling blood.

For Alfred.

He crossed his arms and glowered.

For Alfred.

He'd hold his peace.

"Mijo, how are you living like this? Are you having fiscal problems?"

"What? No."

"There is no need for embarrassment. Be honest with Papi. Is this why you didn't want me visiting? I can help you-"

"NO. I have lots of reasons why I don't-Look. Stuff's just in storage."

Antonio plucked a McDonald's plastic toy out of his pocket.

"Hey, Al's gonna notice that missing. He knows all them _Ninja Turtles'_ names and colors-"

"You had this on display?!"

Arthur winced. Yes, he'd noticed that also; rows of cheap figurines in decorative niches where paintings and vases ought to have been.

"Don't judge me off of this. We just haven't had time to haul everything back over. And with Al being..."

Sick? Small?

"Ya know. And us being out and about and globe trotting, I just haven't pushed it as an issue-"

Antonio choked, "How can this NOT be an issue? Your house has no furniture and it's leaking. And it smells of cat."

It did smell strongly of Americat.

"Easy there, I will change the litter which will solve that last prob-"

"Alfred's hacienda is in much better shape."

"Papi, don't nag me about the cleanli-"

"I am not nagging. I am worried. Where is your fair share?"

"Huh?"

"Alfred has a nice house with nice things in it. Where are _your_ nice things? You accomplish half the work, you get half the stuff. Where is _**your half**_?"

"I got stuff, Papi. We just get deployed a lot. And I don't want all my stuff flying to the four winds if there's a tornado while I'm gone! You get it?"

"Yes, fine. I get it. But this is what familia is for. If you had just told me this sooner, we could've planned something for Easter and your brothers could have come and we'd all be happy to have helped you move back in and dust and clean and make it livable."

"...I...would've had to cook enough tacos for an army. They'd have ate me outta house and home and probably broke half the stuff they moved in-"

"Tejas-"

"We got some vintage stuff, I don't want their paws on. Hell, they might walk off with some of my prized-"

"Tejas, no hables mal de sus hermanos," Spain scolded.

"¡No me diga quién soy y lo que no estoy permitido de decir!" Texas snapped back.

Arthur ducked back into the house; he had enough family dysfunction of his own at present. When Alfred was feeling better, they'd need to have a very serious discussion about communication and they'd need to get to the bottom of whatever the hell the boys had been planning.

There were lots of pictures and he took care studying them. He realized eventually that Tex must've had countless backups of all of these, since he left them on the walls.

What letters were to Alfred...photos were for...

There was one large oval portrait of Alfred hanging over the mantelpiece in an otherwise empty family room. The room was larger than the parlor the boys used for gaming and TV bingeing. It would've been an excellent place for entertaining.

He stepped closer to the mantel to better inspect the picture.

It had a large ornate frame. The image had likely been enlarged from some vintage photo.

Arthur and his brothers had posed for enough of those through the years, establishing their authority and ownership of certain estates.

Only this was Texas's house, and a clear decorative choice on his part. It was interesting that he'd choose to have Alfred instead of...well, himself.

Keeping with the vintage feel, it was still rendered in sepia tones.

It was elegant.

Alfred was in 1880s military uniform, double breasted, decorated. It was difficult to ascertain his rank due to where the portrait ended at his shoulders. Brigadier General? Major General? Arthur couldn't tell.

He'd certainly have been a young face in the field.

Arthur knew firsthand how difficult it could be when your face didn't match your years of experience.

It was a handsome picture.

No slumping. No ridiculous expression. No immature gesturing.

Alfred's eyes were looking to some place to the side of the photographer and his head was tilted just so...it seemed at first like he was daydreaming…

Given how long it took photos to take pictures back then it'd be easy to dismiss his ever so slightly upturned lips as amusement over the chore of staying still…

Arthur frowned hard at the picture.

It could've been amusement. He tried to convince himself.

Only...

If only his eyes…

Weren't so…

He took a step back.

He couldn't unsee it now.

It was a small smile.

A very small, very sad, smile.

Fragile.

It made the picture haunting.

Tragic.

Arthur's fists clenched.

He hated it.

His eyes burned as he stormed down a hall plastered with pictures to go check on his son.

A wealth of photos to choose from…in uniform, out of uniform, in suits, in t-shirts.

Happy, triumphant, laughing, pleasant, amused, arrogant, surprised, delighted, and Texas went and chose _that_ one for a hallowed spot.

Arthur shuffled forward and carefully knelt down beside the boy as he slept through cinema sounds of explosions without stirring.

Tragic.

He checked his son for signs of fever before tucking the blanket more securely around him.

Alfred blinked up at him sleepily.

"I love you," he told him fiercely. As if those words could erase that portrait from existence if he said it firmly enough. If he took care to say it often enough, "I love you so."

Alfred nodded and yawned and smiled.

The nails of his fingers bit into his palms. And he remembered more of what the boy's brother had said and his blood bubbled. And even though common sense told him to wait until the boy was better recovered, his heart rebelled.

"So much!" he insisted. "Of course, I wanted you to come home. If I'd believed it could've been done by simply saying as much…that I was... _ **sorry**_...I'd have...I'd have said so a thousand times. I-I didn't think you would listen to me. I didn't think you wanted to come home to me-I-I-"

Alfred gave him a small, sad smile.

No.

His Alfred was _**never**_ supposed to be tragic.

"I-I love you. I-I've always l-"

The boy reached for him—wanting a hug which Arthur was eager to bestow.

He pressed his face into the golden hair. "I lo-"

"You can't let yourself be bullied by what Tex says when he's upset."

"..."

"But don't be angry, either."

And Arthur knew then that despite it all, all the damage, all the pain, Texas had already been forgiven. A deep twinge of jealousy twisted his gut.

"I know, I know. He can be a real jackass in his delivery." Alfred's lips twitched into a fond smile. "But he means well. Even when he's wrong. He means well. He's just a tornado, Dad."

"..."

"I know your land doesn't get as many of them and...they're not as strong. But you'll get used to them. You'll get used to him, too. If you try."

Arthur's lips pursed tightly together and he released a hard, angry breath through his nose. The boy couldn't understand how much it had hurt to see him in anguish. To have his intentions, their bond, their feelings dragged through the mud like that.

Alfred sighed, "I used to hate the sea."

Arthur frowned.

"All the terrible things it did to ships and to people. All the dangerous things lurking in it. The way it never yields to me and ravages my coasts. How you can't drink it to live! How stingy with food and how cold it can be at night. The pull it had on you...How it always took you away from me! But you loved it. I hated it...And it hurt you when I said it. When I meant it. So I stopped."

"..."

"I can't hate the sea for being what it is to you. Don't hate the tornado."

* * *

Read & Review Please : DDD


	26. Chapter 26

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hetalia. Or Psalm 127.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable

inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Spanish colonization and some of the problems they faced (Seven Cities of Cibola, French infiltration, difficulty in getting people to populate areas). Reference to an Italy Bros clip vs. American values. Monarch butterflies.

 **Special Note:** The way I write it, I see the other nations of the UK embracing the Anglicization of their names to some extent, whereas I believe Spain refers to himself as _España_ and would refer to others with Spanish translations of their country names (which is tricky to type and perhaps to read but is probably more authentic to the character).

 **AN:** Happy New Year! Welcome 2018! I don't know how quickly I'll be able to update during the next month so I'm kicking off the New Year with this chap. (I'm doing an accelerated winter course...because...clearly I'm a glutton for punishment. So yeah, I've been looking over the syllabus and...it'll probably be 18 days of concentrated hell...yay : D...T^T)

Special thanks to FlowerFoxWings for helping me translate lines into Spanish and keep the flavor I wanted! She's been a great help to me. I'd have been hesitant to do a Spain chap without having her as an ace up my sleeve : D

 **Chapter 26: Embarrassing**

* * *

Tex fidgeted on his bed and re-fluffed his pillow.

Earlier, Tex had pulled out and plugged in a lava lamp to serve as a nightlight for Al, ya know, so he didn't trip and die while trying to make it to the bathroom or anything.

Tex stared at the teal blobs and the illumination it cast on the walls. He had to play his cards right, if he was gonna pull everything off.

He needed to allot time for Al to heal up, time for Al's side of the family to cool off and skedaddle, and time for the trip in May.

He needed to squeeze in their solo expedition somewhere within all that.

The May Day trip…

If they were s'posed to celebrate on the day...that'd mean they'd need to leave earlier...which meant there'd be several days beforehand for all of Al's family to arrive which meant…

The last week of April would probably be taken.

And here they were losing the last bit of March.

And Al was sick and would probably need a week to heal up. And then the U.K. would probably need another week to unclamp them from America's bedside.

So...so…

Maybe there'd be a week? The third week of April? Where they could escape for their adventure?

And then there was a certain Spanish thorn in his side that he needed to dislodge and quick.

He clicked his tongue and then sighed, "Papi?"

"Mmmhmm?"

"You are totally embarrassing me. Like, forever. Like, I dunno if I'm ever gonna recover from this."

"From what?" Spain demanded as he propped himself up on one elbow.

"Papi, why are you in here?"

"Because _he_ is in here." He pointed at England who was cuddled up with Alfred on Alfred's bed.

England glared at them both with his one good eye.

Yeah, Al had warned him that he was still pretty axe-crazy with him for spiriting Al away.

He cringed a little.

"You see?" Antonio draped a protective arm over him. He shook his head slowly in disapproval of the Brit. "Es un hombre peligroso."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I don't really want him in here neither."

"He stays!" Alfred declared because he was enjoying the back scratching Arthur was giving him.

"Tch." Yup, Tex was definitely not at the top of that crusty ol' pirate's list of favorite people—the limey was probably gonna smother him in his sleep and because he slept like a log, it'd be easily done.

Tex then realized Antonio's arm was still around him and threw an elbow. "Geroffme."

The Spaniard sighed but obeyed.

"Tex?" Alfred asked.

"What?"

"Did you really read off Stuart's apologies? He texted me earlier that you did."

"Tch...yeah."

"Awwwww, lip service just for me!?"

"Hey! Well…Nothin' I wouldn't do for _**you**_ , baby bro!" Tex grinned. Why, if he could make it through an awkward dinner with Lincoln, following the Civil War, he could do just about anything.

"Aww, Big Bro, that's sooo-"

"Nor I for you, mi pequeñito cactus, mi bebito querido," Spain interrupted to gush as he hugged him.

Tex went bright red, "God, I just wanna hurl you through the window like a Wild West Bar-room Brawl!"

"Don't. You'll let in a draft," Alfred's cheeks puffed.

Spain's head tilted to the side—perplexed. "Why is this so embarrassing, now?" He poked Tex's cheek. " _ **You**_ slept in my bed with me while you were visiting last December."

That turned two blond heads.

Tex flushed and set a pillow between them to mark a boundary. "That was different! It was different. It was super diff-"

"I made up a bed for you in the guestroom but you didn't want to share with Lovi and Feli-"

"O'course I couldn't stay with them! They're crazy exhibitionists! The Italies… they...they...Al? You listening?"

"Yeah?"

"…..Al, they sleep….naked."

"What?! OMG! For real?"

"I wish it ain't so. But they sleep naked."

"Naked, naked?"

"In the buff." Tex glowered at Spain. "And you tried to put me there. With them."

Spain blinked, "You had a different bed than them. I made sure. I know you're prudish."

"Whoa there, cowpokes!" Al interjected, "they shared the same bed?"

"Exactly."

Spain shrugged. "Tight on space. What, you two never share-"

"Not naked!"

"Yeah, we got standards," Al declared.

"Yeah, we do...ugh, Europeans...and your unsettling practices-"

Spain waved a dismissive hand. "We fixed it. You just got to stay with Papi. I wore pajamas."

As if he wasn't embarrassed enough before, Spain had to seem so delighted about it.

"It was just like old times! You were all scared-"

"Well yeah, they just started strippin' down in front o' me and, like, my eyes-"

"And came running to my room. 'Papi, Papi, ¡ayudáme!'" Spain chuckled and pinched his cheeks until he swatted his hands away.

* * *

Rhys finished off his cup of tea before setting it down and returning to the ironing board to press several remaining sets of trousers.

They'd divvied up tasks and chores by slips of paper in a jar as per Tex's request. Tex somehow got "Take care of Al" and judging by the Cat-That-Got-The-Cream grin on his face—rigged it that way deliberately.

Rhys got laundry duties, Reilley got cooking, Mathieu got window washing, Alistair was clearing the gutters, and Arthur outright refused his slip—insisting on caring for Alfred as well.

Which meant Spain got both dusting...and yard work. He accomplished the first easily enough but the second...still, Spain was determined to mow the lawn (which desperately needed it)...even in spite of the sling. But Rhys never heard the telltale sound of yard work.

After folding the remaining laundry, unplugging the iron, and putting everything away; he decided to see what the trouble was.

He found Spain in the shed. The riding lawn mower had a can of gasoline sitting next to it. Perhaps he'd come to his senses and realized he was unfit for the task?

No. His aura was terribly off.

"Antonio?"

He was muttering under his breath and looking down at a collection of double headstones.

Rhys frowned. "Oh yes, those tacky Halloween decorations. Alfred's home had those, too. Didn't he?"

Spain didn't answer and his green eyes were wide as he passed one to him.

This headstone was made of wood rather than foam and…

Hazel eyes widened…

...had an authentic mourning portrait mounted in the center of it with the two Americans dressed in cavalry accoutrements.

"These...these are...not pretend," Spain told him gruffly.

Rhys read over the sickeningly playful epitaph:

 _Lady Luck frowned_

 _and they found_

 _they were damned_

 _One's gun ran out_

 _and the other One's jammed_

Rhys grimaced and glimpsed more headstones, mostly doubles but there were some singles here and there. So, they were all based off real deaths then.

"Do you think England knows?" he asked, concerned with how his younger brother would take such news. It was one thing to know the children were brash, but this...was just...cavalier.

Antonio just stared at him blankly—green eyes dull.

As they worked to gather the "graves" and brushed elbows and shoulders in the small space, Rhys glimpsed what had Spain so distressed.

 _España handed his horse off to the stable boy._

 _He looked up at the estate and downed the last of his rum and wasn't satisfied; a surprise attack from the Apaches had cost him yet more men._

 _And two more died simply from the the elements._

 _So many had been lost in these harsh lands._

 _He wiped his sweaty brow._

 _The heat reminded him of hours spent under an unrelenting sun during Coronado's doomed search for the Seven Cities of Cibola, the indians kept directing them on the fool's errand._

 _Goading them..._

 _A cruel trick._

 _Even more than a century later, it made his mouth twitch into a snarl._

 _His spurs clanged loudly on the terracotta tiles as he passed through the kitchen, startling the servants there._

" _Señor," the women greeted and they were careful not to make any expression at all as he grabbed a decanter of wine._

 _He took heavy swigs as he mounted the stairs._

 _His armor was sticky from battle and hot from the sun and he just wanted to strip it off and soak in a bath. O what he would give for a bath and a meal and a good night's sleep!_

 _His mood soured further when he found Tejas in his private rooms snooping—confirming, as Antonio had long suspected, that_ _ **he**_ _was the reason his effects kept getting damaged, though the servants kept covering for him._

 _The colony was still small and sickly despite his colonizer's more recent efforts to settle the area in earnest. Antonio had been alarmed to hear of a French fort. Had personally led several expeditions to find and eradicate it, though, by God's grace, it had already been destroyed by the time he found it._

 _He was still certain that the French interference...that damned La Salle...had harmed his son's frail constitution further._

 _It was frustrating. To put it bluntly, Tejas was the runt of his litter._

 _And he looked like he was going to wet himself at being discovered. His big brown eyes were huge in his face. He'd always been a nervous little thing, afraid of everything._

 _The church bells rang out, Tejas was supposed to be downstairs eating his dinner and he gruffly said as much._

" _Pa-boss," the child stuttered out, already trembling. España hadn't even moved toward him yet._

 _He just didn't have the robust spirit that Venezuela and Colombia and the others had. Or the amusing savvy Lovino boasted. Or the talent and sweetness that made Feliciano a prize. He sighed at the thought of the Italy he just couldn't seem to get ahold of-_

 _Green eyes focused back on Tejas, who swallowed audibly._

 _Tejas would hide behind Mejico's legs (sometimes under her dress….which really had to stop) when he brought all his family together for fiestas. The little one did not want to play games or sing or dance or grapple or cuddle with the other children._

 _He didn't even like to cuddle with his father or kiss him in greeting the way the others did. It hurt that he wasn't more affectionate. He was such a pretty little child too, but his personality made it difficult to dote on him. He hardly knew what the child liked and disliked since conversing with him could be such a chore._

 _He often just...stared at him. Like he was doing now._

 _He reached out and caught Tejas' wrist and, careful not to bruise it, or to drop the expensive decanter in his other hand, prompted the child to follow him out of the room._

 _He just wanted to be out of this damned armor. He could feel the sweat dripping down his back. All the sun...all the humidity...he needed a change of linen and then he'd be in a better mood to deal with his son._

 _Warnings just weren't keeping him out of his bedroom. He'd need to devise some manner of punishment._

 _Though, from the way the toddler's hand was shaking, simply being discovered might've been worse than any punishment he could plan._

 _¡Dios mío! It was embarrassing that someone of his line had so little bravery. Especially, when he'd gone and named this one after himself! No one would say he was an Antonio in miniature. He didn't act at all like his papá._

 _Still, he tried not to be too hard on him for it. It wasn't Tejas' fault that he didn't have a lot to recommend him by means of land or resources or strength or...charm._

 _But bravery was something they could work on._

 _The child waved an illustration and began chattering on about it. His lip curled, he'd gone through his journal._

 _He blinked. ¿Qué? And he snickered. He wanted to go? To that?_

" _Oh you want to be sacrificed? For the glory of their chieftain? That is what you want?"_

 _Texas looked back at the drawing and then up at him._

 _Antonio laughed harder, "Tonto."_

 _No..._

 _Antonio couldn't even say Tejas was especially clever. Colombia was the athletic one. Venezuela was the bold one. Puerto Rico was the musician. Mejico was the smart one. What could he say about Tejas?_

 _It was difficult when their majesties asked him for news of this colony._

 _He ordered the child downstairs again._

 _Green eyes narrowed and he winced as the child burst into noisy tears._

" _I wish you didn't cry so goddamn much," he grumbled before he could help himself._

 _Then it happened._

 _The little face looked up at him so abruptly and with such a spark of passionate indignation, Antonio felt his irritation briefly turn to amusement. There was the spirit he was looking for!_

" _I wish you weren't so scary!"_

 _Until that..._

 _Scary? He..._ _ **he**_ _wasn't scary. He was...he was strict, sí…and Tejas was just...timid…_

 _He was trying to work him out of that. Toughen him up. Because he was just so afraid of everything and Antonio wanted him to find his confidence...so the world couldn't tear into him._

 _Tejas was tugging at him to let him loose, so he granted the wish and realized half a heartbeat too late, through the warm buzz of alcohol, that they were right next to the stairs._

 _Dammit! He reached but was too slow and the child fell._

 _That wasn't supposed to happen._

 _He was a warrior with remarkable reflexes._

 _How often his troops and his monarchs complimented him on them._

 _He was a leader among men!_

 _That wasn't supposed to happen._

 _That wasn't supposed to happen._

 _That wasn't supposed to-_

" _¡PAAAPI!" the child wailed and choked and spluttered. "¡PA-!"_

 _He dropped the decanter and sprinted down the stairs to tend to him…_

 _Santísima Virgen, have mercy! ¡Tenga misericordia por el niñito!._

 _But..._

 _He was already dead._

" _Mi hijo."_

 _The blood was still warm._

 _The tears were still rolling down the child's soft cheeks._

" _Mi hijo…"_

 _Still warm blood oozed from between those stubby baby teeth._

 _He was already dead._

 _There were screams as the sirvientas discovered them._

 _And he cradled the back of his son's head and ordered them to bring a physician._

 _For what...he didn't know._

 _Because there was nothing...nothing that could be done. He already knew that._

 _But maybe if he could just stem some of the blood. Keep that dark red, almost black, life blood in._

 _Then what?_

 _What now Boss? Antonio Fernandez Carriedo? ¿El General?_

 _But that wasn't who mijo called for._

" _Mijo…I...I am here….I..." He choked. "I am here. Pa...Papá is here...Papi's here now."_

 _Maybe Tejas...wasn't afraid of everything…_

 _Maybe...Tejas was afraid of him…because..._

 _He was..._

 _Fragile…_

 _Tejas was terribly fragile…_

 _But that wasn't such a terrible thing._

 _No, the terrible thing was that España was careless…_

 _And Tejas knew that._

 _That's why he was always afraid._

 _He was sensible._

 _There. You wanted to know which one Tejas was._

 _He was the sensible one._

 _It didn't save him though._

 _No._

 _He just knew what to expect and Papi didn't disappoint._

" _...mi pequeñito..."_

 _Dios. He'd have given_ _ **anything**_ _to have traded places with him; to have fallen instead._

Rhys withdrew and the other man's shoulders shook.

* * *

España pulled his arm out of his sling and ignored the jolt of pain that came with carrying the storage crate of graves.

He moved into the house and found his son in the kitchen with Inglaterra and Irlanda del Norte, coaxing America to eat.

The two boys were seated on bar stools talking about sports while the adults were left standing beside them.

He dropped the crate. Which got their attention.

"What. Is. This?" he demanded.

The boys blinked and then swiveled back to face each other and continued talking.

"¡Oye! ¿Qué es esto?"

His son turned back around and raised an eyebrow, "That means y'all found our Halloween decorations. Congratulations."

Rhys came in and set down his own boxful.

Alfred looked over, squinted at the second box, and shook his head, "Geez, all your singles are Civil War ones again."

"Well, there were just so many interesting ways to go. I sampled them all," Tex snickered.

"We're gonna have to mix 'em up again. What happened to the westerns?"

"I think Molossia's got-"

Antonio tossed the one with mourning portrait at their feet. "What is this?"

"..."

"Or this?"

He threw another one that had been done up with bullet holes and the macabre ditty:

 _When the mob comes to play_

 _From their underworld lairs_

 _Don't ride the elevator_

 _Stick With the Stairs_

Both boys looked down at it, and then at each other, and burst out laughing.

"God, how many rounds did they use?" Al chuckled. "We had more holes than Swiss cheese!"

"I remember sliding down to the floor and being like, hell, what a waste of ammo? Seriously, one machine gun would've been enough. But I dunno, Al, I was kinda flattered."

"No kill like overkill!"

The idea of two teenage boys being ruthlessly gunned down by the mob…

If Romano had known...and not told him...

" _¡PAPI!"_

Who did you call for then, mijo? When you slid to the floor...dying?

He shuffled closer.

Tex smirked. "Yeah, they had to close that elevator for three months to clean it up and get it back in service."

The boy's boast put a lump in his throat.

 _The women were still at work scrubbing down the stairs. Two days since..._

 _The beads of the rosary dug against his lips. He watched from a crack in the door._

" _¿S-señor?" Juan approached._

 _He slammed the door and bolted it._

" _Señor, please!"_

 _He'd sat down there for hours holding him. Had watched the sun rise on the congealed blood on the floor before he'd finally had the sense to let them take the child from him, and he'd stripped out of his armor and bathed the stains off his skin._

 _He'd returned to his child's room to find that they'd wrapped him in a shroud on the physician's ruling and a coffin had already been delivered without his ordering for it._

 _They wanted to bury him...Toño...his little Toni..._

 _He holed himself up in his bedroom and didn't leave again to bathe or eat._

 _He was a powerful empire. He could last a week easily without such amenities. It was going without sleep that was hard._

 _And he had to. Joaquin climbed the terrace and up through the window in an effort to smuggle out Tejas._

 _España fired him from his household and promised to kill anyone who made another such attempt._

 _The smell of death was worsening though, and he couldn't pretend otherwise._

" _Your papi is here," he assured as he laid down beside the little one. "I won't let them take you."_

 _Though from the murmuring outside his door there'd be another try in a matter of days._

" _I won't let them take you," he repeated solemnly._

 _Not without a fight._

 _Though…his hopes were flagging._

 _Toni should've returned already; he was a personification._

 _Was this what happened when a colony failed? They just...didn't regenerate?_

 _He pressed his rosary hard against his lips and continued praying._

 _"Por favor, por Dios."_

 _He'd never had days pass so slowly and it was hard enduring the soul crushing weight of divine punishment._

 _"Te ruego, por favor."_

 _Why do you weep, España? So noisy. So goddamn loud._

 _"Solamente te pido eso, por Dios."_

 _He has no land of gold, no resources, no strength, no charm, no nothing to recommend him to you. You cannot miss him._

" _Por favor."_

 _You don't appreciate your Tejas? Then you don't get to have him._

 _"Por favor. Por favor, devuélveme lo," he begged wretchedly. If he could just have him back! If he could just..._

 _But the hours stretched on._

 _He was solemnly, hoarsely, reciting Psalm 127, "...a...a reward from him."_

 _He struggled to get through._

" _Like arrows in the hands of a warrior  
_ _are children born in one's youth.  
Blessed is the man  
_ _Whose...whose…"_

 _He forced in a breath, "whose quiver is...full of them."_

 _When the bundle in his arms wriggled with life..._

" _¡Tejas! Mijo, mijo, mijo," he gushed between kisses._

 _The spot was still tender and the child whimpered when he touched it. But the bone and skin had mended at last!_

 _The household was overjoyed when he carried him out and more than willing to obey his demands._

 _He wanted them to purchase all the toys Tejas longed for; anything his sweet brown eyes had so much as looked at. The finest, whitest child's gown they could find. All of his favorite foods._

 _His servants assured him that they'd see to his needs. Señor should go rest._

 _They seemed a little unsettled when he didn't. When he stayed and he watched them bathe and clothe his progeny. When he carefully accepted the child from them and combed his son's soft hair himself. When they filled his child's room with toys, he took note that his son loved horses._

 _And he ordered that despicable child-sized coffin burned and watched from his son's bedroom window to make sure it was done._

 _Only then...only then could he rest._

Toni pulled out his phone. "Here. I think I got a...yeah!" He laughed, "Whenever the interns bitch and moan about what a rough day they're having, I show 'em this!"

The elevator.

Dios...

The black and white film didn't hide nearly enough.

He hurried into the kitchen and threw up hard in the sink.

"Damn Al, you must be contagious." Tex reached across the bar and turned the faucet on.

His son pulled off a paper towel sheet and handed it to him, before grabbing him by his good elbow and leading him out and away.

"The lawn," he muttered blankly.

"Look, you sit it out. I'll handle it later." Tejas adjusted his spectacles and the sun caught on the glass.

 _España_ _had arrived early with dawn's first light and washed and napped for a few hours until he realized the house was disturbingly quiet and grew nervous._

 _Unlike Romano or Colombia, who often woke him with an early morning greeting (of varying violence) if they realized he was present, Tejas only came in if he was afraid of something._

 _Still, he'd expected to awake to some sound of Tejas playing; he loved his hobby horses and could make rather impressive whinnies for them; he had an ear for the sounds of different breeds._

 _Antonio made it a point to get him a new one each time he visited. He had a rather grand stable to choose from now. It amused Antonio to watch him painstakingly select which toy would accompany him for the day._

 _España_ _wandered through the house in search of his colony and was directed outside by Rosa._

 _He nearly tripped over the stick of a pinto hobby horse and then caught the gleam of sun on glass and realized his child was lying down in the grass and for a moment, España worried he'd fallen and hurt himself._

" _¿Mijo?"_

 _He didn't move. Or maybe he'd been been bit...Dios! There were so many dangerous snakes here!_

" _¡Mijo!" He rushed over._

" _No! Stop!" he hissed as España's shadow fell over him._

 _España paused and waited, surprised by how harshly the child had spoken to him._

 _Tejas released an exasperated breath and peeked over his shoulder. "It's no good. You're too scary."_

 _His heart sank._ _ **Still**_ _scary?_

 _He'd been so hopeful upon learning his son needed glasses. That maybe…just maybe spectacles could solve their problems. That poor eyesight was what made Tejas so nervous to be around him. That Antonio was wrong and it wasn't him that was scary. It was his form! He was a large, blurry blob that appeared suddenly to scold or intervene with something that could cause the child harm. That would make anyone nervous. It was often his voice or action that announced his presence to the child and now it was no wonder his little one was constantly being caught off guard or uneasy with Antonio watching over him from the edge of a room._

 _He couldn't see him smiling, he told himself. Never saw the tenderness in his face when they said their nightly prayers and he tucked him in and kissed him goodnight._

 _Only…_

 _Tejas had his spectacles on and Papi was still scary?!_

 _His heart sank into his toes._

 _He sat down and tucked his knees underneath himself and tried to be...smaller. Willed himself to-to-to NOT be scary._

 _The child shook his head gravely and looked down at whatever he had clasped in his hands and then back at him. The sun glared off the glass of his spectacles. "No bueno."_

 _He blinked and asked what was no good._

 _The child shifted and he watched big brown eyes size him up. "No eres bueno."_

 _His jaw dropped._ _ **He**_ _was no good?!_

 _" ¡¿P-p-por qué?!"_

" _...cuz you're scary," his baby mumbled in answer._

 _He immediately reclined all the way down though it meant he was sure to have grass stains. "N-not scary, now? Yes?"_

 _Tejas' lips twisted like he wasn't completely sold on the idea but he rolled over to face him and the Spaniard waited to pass inspection._

 _The child scrutinized him for another solid minute before he opened his hands and from them crawled a large butterfly._

 _Antonio stared. None of his other colonies could've caught one without crushing it._

" _Well done," he praised. "You caught him. That takes skill. Good job." It pleased him very much to know the child's reflexes and coordination were improving with the aid of glasses._

 _He'd also noticed that there'd been far fewer damages done around the house and in his room._

 _Tejas frowned. "I didn't catch him. He flew to me. Then you scared him. So I had to protect him and I cupped my hands like this."_

" _O-oh."_

 _It seemed like a fanciful thing to say until, during the stillness of the moment, another butterfly settled down on one of Tejas' curls._

 _The child grinned happily—the way he usually only did when España tickled him. He breathed softly, "Seeeee? They like me. I'm their favorite!"_

 _Antonio nodded and leaned forward—intrigued by the brightness of the orange wings._

 _And both butterflies fluttered away._

" _Look, what you have done?!" the child tisked in a tone that was shamefully familiar. Though, instead of hissing about clumsiness, the child repeated. "Too scary! Too scary!"_

" _Sorry. Sorry. Sorry."_

 _The child looked mournfully at where the bright wings had left for. "They were so beautiful and you..._ _ **you**_ _scared them away."_

That was always a hurtful thing to remember.

"Well, ain't that a look that could curdle milk. You gonna throw up again?"

He stared blankly into hard brown eyes.

Antonio sat down on the bed and sighed, "...maybe."

Tejas shrugged and pulled a plastic waste bin and stationed it beside him. "If you gotta, ya gotta."

There was a flicker of movement and he realized the corner Tejas had taken the bin from had a coiled snake in it!

He pulled the boy back and looked for something to kill the reptile with.

"Whoa! S'just a garter."

España gripped him harder. "That is NOT a garter. What are you talking about?!"

To his surprise and worry Toni started snickering. "Okay, okay. It's _**not**_ a garter. You're right. But don't tell Al, I've convinced him that they can get that big cuz everything's bigger in Texas."

España stared.

"Papi, that's a kingsnake." He made to move toward it.

"No, he will bite you!"

"Well, if he does it'll be cuz you keep distracting me with your hysteria."

"Toni, you go. I will get rid of him-"

"I think it's a she, her tail tapers pretty fast. The male's tales are usually a bit long-"

"Ton-"

"But it's a kingsnake. They're tough to tell. But she ain't venomous."

He reached into a drawer of his dresser and pulled out snake handling tongs.

"This happens a lot?" España demanded—distressed at the idea of his son stumbling upon such creatures in his house.

"Eh, it happens enough." He caught her, pushed opened the window and flung her writhing form out. He closed the window and put away the tongs. "We just haven't been here a while. So...FYI...There could be some critters here and there. Still, at least you found her before Americat did."

España nodded, "I would not want him to have been hurt."

Tex's mouth twitched with a smile. "Americat has been known to eat snakes."

"..."

"And kingsnakes are great for the ranch."

"..."

"They eat vipers and rattlers, Papi."

"Oh…"

"Yeah. You...you, okay?"

"...worries me."

The boy made an expression of surprise before hastily frowning again. "Look, you see or hear anything. Give a holler, I'll deal with whatever varmint-"

España pulled him into a hug. "I don't fear for me. I fear for you! Snakes? T-the elevator? The shootout? The-the-whatever else? Did you...did you suffer?"

"Huh?"

"Were you scared? In the elevator?"

Toni stepped back and laughed brightly, but he didn't look him in the eye, "Nah."

España reeled him in again.

"Oompff, Pap-"

He knew he was a proud young man.

Strong, independent...sassy.

But they were still awfully narrow shoulders to deal with so much. Look at how easily he still fit in his arms? Who cared if he was a little taller?

"You will tell me. You will tell me, yes? The-the next time you...so I can be there? So I can help you?"

He was trying! He was trying so hard! To fix things. Ever since Feliciano alerted him to his Tejas still being alive. He knew he needed to make things right between them.

No one disappears from the world stage like that without big reasons.

That his Tejas would let them all think he'd died within a decade of annexation…

Would break his father's heart like that and not even acknowledge it...

"You're still on about that?" The voice was semi-muffled against his shoulder. "I'll be a pain in the ass. You only think I'm one now but when I'm healing up and you're playing Florence Nightingale to me-"

"You will tell me?"

"...sure...whatever."

"No. You promise. You promise me." He pulled back and grasped the boy's face. "Promise me, now."

Tejas frowned. "Is this what got you sick in there?"

"Yes!" España nodded. "Yes, I think about you in pain and I -"

"Fine. I'll let you deal with the aftermath of one. That'll cure you of this philanthropy."

Antonio tried to bring him in for another hug. "Gracias, gracias, gra-"

But his son pushed him away and crossed to the other side of the room.

He scrambled after him. "Te-"

"...you're so embarrassing…" Tejas shut the door between them.

Embarrassing.

Antonio leaned against the door. He was embarrassing. Still, embarrassing wasn't scary.

It was...he smiled weakly...an improvement...

* * *

Read & Review Please! : DDD


	27. Chapter 27

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hetalia. Or Portal 2.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable

inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Teensy Reference to Easter Rising in Ireland. More references to strained relations with Native American tribes prior to the formation of the U.S. and afterwards. When a cactus has offspring, you call them pups XD.

 **Special Warning:** Super long block of an author's note/rant to vent feelings  & unsolicited advice.

 **AN:** Whelp. Change of plans. Had to drop that online course because the overpriced merchandise was faulty and the Prof was in denial and would not help with troubleshooting. I dunno folks, but when you click on the quiz link...and it doesn't take you to a quiz...to me, that signals there's a problem XD. Euripides contends that "A bad beginning makes for a bad ending" so I got the heck outta dodge! I share this in the hopes that if other people find themselves in a similar predicament, to be proactive—you do not have to just deal with it. When Life gives you lemons… "demand to see Life's manager" -Cave Johnson, Portal 2 (and get a refund :) because it's the American way...just know that you will have to jump through tons of bureaucratic hoops over the following weeks. The trick is to not flinch at all the forms and ask for the higher up's contact info. It's a game of chicken, don't balk.

In other news, my regular Spring Semester starts today and this time I've got...26 books...o_O to read….O_O for school O_O to succeed. So, you know, it'll be...interesting (coughpainful) trying to find a balance between all of that and writing this. Here's to hoping I find a way! : DD

 **Chapter 27: Hexes and Headshots**

* * *

Arthur stared...and stared...and stared...before shakily reaching for the frame on the "tomb" and pulling it free. It cracked off easily enough and Arthur realized it had only been fastened by a glob of hot glue.

"Yeah," Alfred slurped at his noodles. "I thought it was kinda creepy that they dressed us. I mean, it was still kinda creepy that _you_ dressed me when I...But, ya know, less cuz...you're my dad and you gave me baths when I was a baby and stuff…"

Arthur studied the aged sepia toned picture; there was a solemnity in their young faces and an awkwardness to their slumping forms that alerted one at once that they weren't sleeping.

Arthur took the now empty barstool seat beside Alfred. He swallowed hard and set the picture on the counter.

"...you're...not gonna be weird about this, right?" Alfred asked tiredly and peered into the sink to make sure all of Antonio's sickness had been washed away before turning off the faucet.

Arthur sucked in a breath and turned to look at the boy.

Alfred blinked. "I mean, it's just...there's...there's really nothing you can do about it...so...freaking out won't-"

Stiff upper lip. Stiff upper lip. Stiff-

Bugger.

His lips trembled.

Alfred patted his arm and cooed, "S'okay. It's okay. Don't be sad. It was just a fight. We just lost is all. We came back later."

The tone was sympathetic but there...just wasn't real understanding in his eyes. He was too desensitized.

But with time…

If Arthur could find a way to limit his overexposure to violence…

Over time...he could recover...

Arthur looked over to Rhys who was frowning deeply. Reilley bustled about the kitchen—louder and clumsier than was his usual wont.

At present, all Arthur could do was try and communicate how it made him feel. Overcoming his own reserve was difficult but vital if he was going to model healthier communication methods for the boy to emulate, since Alfred was very reserved in some areas, outright desensitized in others, and often left without words or instructions on how to convey things he'd experienced.

"It makes me...very sad," Arthur forced out around the lump in his throat. "I...I don't like thinking...that your government just...sent you boys out...so...so carelessly." Ruthlessly, more like.

The child's head tilted in confusion. "...but we always come back. So it makes sense to send-"

Arthur slammed a fist on the counter. "It does NOT!"

Blue eyes went wide with alarm. "..."

Control, Arthur. Control. He'd definitely need to attend a cyber session with his counselor for...anger management. That is, if Parliament didn't deem him a lost cause after the Walmart incident. He took a steadying breath. "Sweet...yes, sending us can-can, er...bolster the vigor of our troops at times-"

He saw the boy nod enthusiastically.

"But it can be dangerous, should we die," Arthur continued. "Deaths...can affect your memory."

Alfred frowned. "I thought only hexes and headshots-"

"Too many deaths can influence how much you remember of an event," he forced out tightly.

It was frightening. It was positively horrifying to think of how many deaths the boys had endured. It gave rise to a new possibility (or complication) beyond the hex as to why Alfred had difficulty remembering things.

Alfred filled his spoon and then drained it back into the bowl. "Really?"

"Yes," Arthur replied grimly.

"Oh…" The boy swallowed a little nervously and then deliberately shrugged. "Oh well."

"A-alfred?!" This child was going to give him heart palpitations.

The American wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Can't do anything about it now...maybe I'll never get back all of 1812...maybe it's for the bes-"

"What about Texas?" Arthur asked sharply as he fished out a handkerchief for the boy. "Has Texas shown any signs of-"

"It don't matter," Tex growled as he re-entered the room. "And you're in _**my**_ seat."

Arthur frowned at the lad and then looked back to his son. It was such a slight movement, but Arthur wasn't fooled; a nod.

So then, Texas had some memory problems, too.

He'd need to tell Antonio.

God, no wonder Alfred had long accepted that some memories were out of reach. While less obviously afflicted (by virtue of fewer years and missions or perhaps, more social savvy in maneuvering around the gaps), Texas was also a passenger of the same boat. And at the helm, they reassured one another that all was well and normal and refused to see they were taking on water.

It was a few hours later that Antonio, with conspicuously bloodshot eyes that likely matched his own, appeared. It was hard to stay angry at him when he reflected what Arthur was feeling so acutely.

He was still beyond furious that Spain caused him such trouble in that store and that the two of them would be banned from that particular location for the next twelve years or until enough staff changeover had occurred. And then there was the matter of the expense of the damages...

But...was it reasonable to expect that Spain would stand by while England took Texas to task? Though it was for, well, it was for kidnapping! But...but…

He knew that look of horror in the other's eyes on bringing, Arthur looked down at the "grave," _**that**_ in.

He looked over at the boys who were on their bean bag chairs playing video games and chatting while Americat wandered the perimeter of the room—rubbing against the walls and purring. Despite needing tons of tissues, Alfred looked happy. He watched Texas reach over and ruffle the blond hair. Alfred laughed.

He couldn't afford to stay angry with the older boy. Alfred had said as much. Rejecting Texas outright would damage his relationship with his Alfred. Though accepting the Texan came with just as many perils because of his mercurial moods...a tornado indeed.

But if he could get Spain to take charge…get him to use the weight of his paternal authority and throw it over the lad...like a net of...security?

He didn't want to think of it as "restricting" him. That aroused all manner of unfortunate memories of asylums, but something definitely had to be done to settle him down.

Well, first off. He needed to get the man up to speed.

Arthur cleared his throat as he faced the other man. "I...I don't know if there's any good way to say-"

"Just say it," Antonio replied gruffly.

"You're aware that many successive deaths can cause...memory issues."

"Aware...heh, I know it...when Rome conquered me," he nodded tiredly.

Arthur flinched at the bluntness of that. Damnation, they had more in common than he often liked admitting. "Well, the boys have endured-"

Spain glared. "Yes, I know. _**I**_ am the one who found the graves. You, forget?"

Arthur grit his teeth and let that by. "Well, we've known for a while now that Alfred has memory issues. But...in light of...this-"

Spain waited.

"I thought you ought to know that Texas has some too."

"He said this?"

"Alfred did."

Antonio struggled. "Do you...do you know...what parts he is missing? Do we need books or historians to talk with them? What should I...who should I…? There has to be something I can...Do you know what he is missing? If I have to go and bring someone back, I will, just...you stay and make sure he stays and I will go and-"

"...no...no, I…" Arthur spoke uncertainly, "I…" Good Lord, did he look like that when he was worrying over Alfred? More gently than he intended, he murmured, "I'm afraid not. I don't know what to do for him that would help..."

He looked away from a grief that was too familiar.

* * *

Alfred and Texas were playing _Portal 2_ when Antonio abruptly crossed the room and stood in front of the big screen.

Both boys groaned and Alfred paused the game.

"Dude! You're in-"

"Mijo, do you have trouble with remembering events?" Antonio demanded.

Wow. Alfred's jaw dropped. He just...there was no beating around the bush with this guy. He looked over his shoulder and saw Arthur. Whellp, that explained it; Arthur must've told him just then. And rather than try to find an appropriate moment to take Tex aside, he just...charged over.

It was almost amusing; his bro had never been a super subtle guy...and this made it kinda obvious who he got that from. In comparison, he was kinda tame.

Tex looked at Alfred and then back to his father. "Look, I didn't know there was gonna be a quiz. I mean, just cuz I can't give exact historical dates on things doesn't mean I've got some big, soap opera-y amnesia-"

Alfred set his controller down and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Thanks, Bro."

Tex flinched. "Love you, Bro."

"But you should," Antonio stated passionately. "In, now this one's tough because we weren't really recording dates yet, but around 5th Century B.C. your tío," His expression soured as he said, " _Portugal_ ," and then lightened again, "-and I were young and we were just starting to mint coins. When Isabella gave birth to John, Prince of Asturias, it was the 30th of June, 1478. In 1936, during my Civil War, the Spanish Legion executed civilians alongside combatants-"

"Uh, Papi? TMI."

He then jumped forward and began rattling off EU trade agreements that his country was contemplating for that year and the two Americans shared a glance.

Creepy specific.

He was...creepily specific about a lot of stuff. And was more than willing to share the spectrum—good or bad.

"Good for you," Tex pointed with his controller "You got a good memory for remembering all your...ya know, life's highlights. Woohoo for you. Please move-"

Spain shook his head in agitation. "I don't have to remember. I wonder and the date comes to me. It...it floats up, natural, yes?"

"Huh?"

Arthur joined Antonio in front of the screen. "As personifications of the land, dates are supposed to be easy for us to know. It's in the land, the land knows….I imagine you two remember only certain dates then?"

Alfred chewed at his bottom lip, he remembered a lot of his formative years the best, even with the hex censoring a lot of his warm and fuzzy memories. He'd never really thought about it but...maybe Arthur was onto something. His Roanoke years, and his earliest wandering years, and the hex-censoring aside, from the time Arthur had started watching over him until 1812...he hadn't undergone a single death. Injuries, yes. But...death? No.

Tex wasn't super reminiscent about his years under Spain's wing or Mexico's so Alfred couldn't say 100 percent that the same was true for him. But, Alfred knew Tex botched dates from the time they were together.

He constantly mixed up Civil War battles. He knew the geography and the officers and the outcomes. But exactly who was serving beside him, how they died, how _**he**_ died, all that stuff was a coin flip and you never heard the same story twice.

Meanwhile, Tex was adamant that his last visit to London, before he had to represent in the 2015 meeting, was with Al in 1890. Which was partially right. They'd arrived in mid-December and stayed nearly three months or so in London. Tex remembered it as one though. He remembered the mission they'd been given and how Parliament had paid through the nose for their services and since they'd already been touring with Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show and Bill couldn't really afford to anger the U.S. government by re-negotiating their contracts and by extension not providing them alibis—the trip had been an interesting blend of sleuthing and performing and...doing what must be done. And yeah, they totally made bank on that trip. But there were more than a few bits that were hazy for his brother.

It usually worked out in their favor that he messed that date up. If he remembered the correct date and blurted it out, Al's family would figure out pretty damn fast what they'd been called over to handle.

And considering their families' reactions to ill fated military campaigns, he couldn't see them taking other... _darker_ , specialty missions too well.

"..."

"..."

Arthur's arms were crossed and his feet were planted. "Or do you simply, how do you say, 'ballpark' the years? Do they all...do all the conflicts simply...bleed togethe?. You remember the war and...stitch together the order of events? Because at least if you have the order, if not the dates, then you... _remember_ enough?"

"I gotta mow the lawn." Tex abruptly left his beanbag chair.

"I gotta, I gotta...do...things...too." Alfred scampered to his bedroom and tried not to hear both of their parents sighing as they made their escapes.

* * *

Reilley was reclining on a stiff mattress in what he dubbed the "bunk bed barracks." He could afford to take a little rest while the slow cooker was simmering on the counter for the next few hours. He was hoping beef stew could give a strong dose of edible coziness to make him feel more at home here. Or at least more relaxed.

Getting America back hadn't really eased the situation. Texas was still...agitated? And England was cracked. Spain was cracking.

Aye, the deaths were...unsettling. How had no one told them the importance of staying alive? It was usually standard procedure that if one personification captured another, some form of ransoming would take place. You didn't want your present prisoner to forget that you treated them well in future reversals. Sometimes it even opened up into later alliances.

How had _no one_ taught them that?

Or…

He thought of his nephew's capture by Iroquois where she tried to force him back into her clan…

And then he thought of America's methods of forcing his people's ways on various First Nations…

But then, earlier, there'd been countless raids where his nephew's settlers and their children were forced into tribal life and killed if they resisted.

It was a brutal tug of war between cultures.

If you killed the personification, was it easier to assimilate the people of one side into the other during the "death?"

Texas and America had "died" or "lost," as Alfred had said, many times. What about when they "won?"

He shivered.

Well, that was a theory for another time. Tomorrow was Easter. They'd need to do something festive. Maybe he'd take pity on Texas, and take Spain to Mass himself—a little Catholic solidarity might settle the hyper Spaniard down a bit.

There was still the problem of furniture though. It'd be a better holiday all around if they could move some pieces back in.

If they got Stuart involved and played the drama up...greased the wheels, they might not even have to pay for a moving truck...which would delight Alistair.

He stretched and then went hunting for Texas and wound up on the front porch. The boyo must've relieved Spain from yard duty. That was probably for the best. How the hell Antonio had planned to steer a riding lawn mower with only one hand...Reilley had been morbidly curious to observe…

But the grass was all trimmed now.

He was about to call out to the youth but Canada beat him to it.

Mathieu walked out onto the lawn just as the latter was coiling up the cord for a lawn edger.

Something in his gait suggested confrontation.

Reilley's eyebrows twitched. O great. Just what they needed. More drama. As if Arthur and Antonio hadn't indulged in enough for everybody yesterday.

Mathieu crossed his arms and remarked, "You know...you made my little brother cry, eh? In a Walmart. And I got arrested. In a Walmart, eh?"

"Did you cry too, _EH_?" Tex sneered.

Mathieu colored a little bit but planted his feet and glared.

Texas held his brother's gaze and then shrugged. "...fine. Whatever. Deck me. One for him. One for you. Get it over with."

Mathieu uncrossed his arms and fidgeted with the ends of his sleeves. "I don't deny...no...I _won't_ deny that our family's...really dysfunctional and it might be fitting that we were the ones causing mayhem there that day...but…" He shook his head. "What I mean is, given all of our histories, I can see how that would make anyone leery of just trusting anybody's intentions...I mean, every branch of this tree has...issues. But...after what you said there...I'm worried...why do you want to believe in the worst of Arthur?"

"..."

"I mean, _**caution**_ _,_ I understand. There's bad blood between all of us but...this is something else. I...I know he's made mistakes...I...I've made mistakes, too. You know that already. But...it's like you... _ **want**_ him to fail."

"..."

"But you seemed okay with them bonding before? During Christmas? What makes it different now?"

"...he's rushing into things," Tex grumbled.

"You're afraid he's going to be exploited? I get that." Then Mathieu's violet eyes turned calculating. "But how long is Arthur supposed to wait before he's 'approved' by you?"

"..."

"Weeks? Years? Decades? As long as it took _**you**_ to get in Al's good graces? Do I have to wait that long too?"

"...hit me. I made him cry."

"It would be far more cathartic for me to have some kind of answer instead. I think I'd know better where Arthur...and myself stand."

The brim of Tex's hat hid his eyes. "... _ **hit**_ me."

"What do you think England would do? America's always followed his own direction. You can't think he'd be _**that**_ influenced? I know he and I have had...problems lately. Mostly because of...me...I...I haven't been the greatest older brother-"

Texas snorted, "Understatement."

Violet eyes narrowed. "But I know America. He's _never_ been weak willed. **Never**. So you can't think that. And if you do...it's...well, it's an insult that I-I-I won't allow."

"..."

Mathieu took a step forward. "Or am I...am I way off base? Does it have less to do with him? And more to do with you? I mean, it's so easy to blame Alfred for melodrama; especially when it always seems like it's coming from his direction. But maybe it's just slightly over a few steps. Cuz you're always standing right next to him. What? You...you don't trust _your_ father so Alfred's not allowed to trust _his_?"

Reilley released a low, soft whistle. Mathieu was always the observant one. He watched Texas shift his weight onto his back leg and lean back.

The Texan tossed the edger tool aside. "Look, I ain't gonna stand here all day. You want your hit? Well, now's the time, Princess Pancakes. Land one. Or I'm walking."

"What's so terrible about Spain anyway? He's only done everything he can possibly do just to be a satellite of your life! Do you know what I would give for that? My real father is dead. I will never have that! Never!"

"Be glad!" Texas spat. "You never knew him, you lucky bastard! He can be whatever you dream him to be! You're not stuck with him the way that he is! He can be a great hero! He can be a good man! He can be smart and respectable! He can be…" his voice filled with grief, "... _perfecto_."

"...you just...don't understand," Mathieu swallowed painfully, "...at least he's here-"

Brown eyes flashed. "...O, I understand. You got too much wrapped up in the idea. You think if he was here now, he'd be at your beck and call. And he'd just think the world of you and he'd always be kind and good. That he'd be something you could be proud of. Or that you'd be something special to him, HA! You're better off than you know."

He stalked away, leaving Mathieu pale.

Reilley blew out a long breath.

Ooh me.

Not sure which boy to console first.

Tex stormed over to the porch and glared at Reilley.

"H-hey there, boyo," the Irishman greeted.

In reply the Texan hissed, "God, my house is crawling with people. Can't get a goddamn, single minute to mysel-"

Okay, maybe not that one. Maybe Canada was the safer option.

"I am sorry I am not perfect," Spain mumbled—making Reilley jump. He barely held back the instinctive scream. Hadn't even realized he'd crept up!

Texas' lips curled into a snarl. "Frickin' eavesdroppers EVERYWHERE." He entered the house and slammed the door hard behind him. Not even bothering to close the screen door which squeaked in the breeze.

Reilley winced. Now really, that was just nasty.

Antonio still followed after the boy though. The second he was through the door he argued, "I might not be all those things you want, Tejas. But I AM here! And you ARE special to me, mijo."

When there was no response, he called louder, "You ARE special to me!"

"..."

"¡ERES MUY ESPECIAL!"

"Well, ain't this all goin' swell?" Alistair snarked from above—tossing down a hefty bag of leaves he'd swept from the roof's gutters, crooks, and crannies. "Whaddya think, will there be a 'Rising' tomorrow?"

Reilley sighed, "Do you have Stuart's number?"

"As if I'm not busy right now?! Up here? On the roof? Here, let me be a magician and just pull it right out of my ars-"

* * *

Rhys noted, as he walked around the storage unit, that it was much larger than he expected. Reilley had orchestrated through Stuart the means into organizing a trip to the storage facility for furnishings.

Arthur and Mathieu had opted to stay behind and care for Alfred, who'd seemed rather devastated that he was missing out on an adventure. But he was in the oozing stage and unfit for travel.

A very reluctant Texas was only coerced into accompanying them by fear of property damage.

 _Tex huffed, "Didn't even invite y'all and I'm stuck playin' host."_

 _Reilley shrugged, "Give us the key and we'll-"_

" _Hell no. Don't want you breakin' our stuff just cuz you won't go to a hotel."_

" _You got room," was Scotland's ominous answer. "Be hospitable...or else."_

Rhys was pleasantly surprised to find that most of the contents of the storage facility was not nearly as tacky as what was in Texas's house now.

There were heavy dark wood dressers and a fine dining table that still had its purchase tags. There were coffee tables, bed frames of wood as well as brass, outdoor furniture, a porch swing, and various trunks that functioned as storage and seating.

However, the overall style of everything was quite different from Alfred's Virginia Manor.

"What do yeh think of this?" Alistair motioned to an antler adorned chandelier. The redhead's mouth twitched with amusement.

Rhys frowned. "It's…"

"Masculine," Spain cheerfully completed.

Rhys hastily agreed.

"I like this, too!" Spain lifted a Spanish Colonial hanging lamp.

The plan was to just go for essentials.

But Spain kept getting sidetracked and was so...enthusiastic to be there…

Rhys's brothers had informed him about Texas's row with Mathieu in the garden on the subject of fathers...and how Antonio, unlucky fellow, heard every word.

However, rather than being discouraged, as any normal person might have been, Antonio seemed more determined than ever to be as paternally supportive as possible.

Earlier, when they'd been walking toward the unit and Rhys had commented on it, Antonio replied with surprising upbeatness: " _I came to fix our problems. I wish he said them to me, instead of Canadá, but at least he said them. Maybe I cannot be every single thing he wishes me to be. That part is hard. But I think am a good man. Perfect? No. I know that. Good? Yes. I will prove that. He will see. I do think the world of all mis hijos and I am trying to be more attentive. He IS special to me. So," Spain concluded rather triumphantly, "I have those parts already! All the rest, wellll, we can work on it."_

"Mijo, ¿lo tocas?" Spain indicated to an old piano.

If Rhys recalled right, from Arthur's explorations of Alfred's property, his nephew had a piano as well. Given that Alfred didn't express any talent for it, it stood to reason that—

Tex fidgeted. "...yeah."

"¡Fantástico! Stuuuuuuuuart! We want the piano too!"

Four men came over and began moving items to facilitate rolling it out.

Reilley had been pleased that one call to Stuart and a verbal, if begrudging, request from Texas signalling he needed aid was all that was required for two huge moving trucks and an assortment of workers to be sent out to assist.

"I can't believe all these guys got shipped over," Tex muttered.

Stuart shrugged, "Rumor has it that there are...big fears that you or, more likely, your parents will make a case against the government over child abu-"

"What?!"

"-so they very much want you to be settled and content."

"That a fact?"

"In fact, if you want the entire unit emptied and transported, I doubt you'll get any resistance."

"That is an option?" Spain asked excitedly as he juggled an assortment of Colonial Era odds and ends.

Texas shook his head. "This place closes in an hour."

"I doubt," Stuart repeated with emphasis, "you'll get _**any**_ resistance from anyone."

"Empty it. We get you all moved in," Spain insisted. "Nice and settled. Like a happy, potted cactus pup."

Tex flushed. "Papi-"

"All in favor!" Reilley threw in. Reilley, Alistair, Antonio, and himself raised their hands. "You're outvoted, boyo. Democracy."

"But, but, but-" he spluttered. "Fine! But I ain't doin' all the heavy lifting once it gets home!"

"That is okay. Papi does not want you to hurt yourself-"

"-I ain't delicate, dammit!"

While the lad fumed, Rhys and his brothers inspected various hunting trophies. Perhaps, they should've requested that the taxidermy stayed.

Still, they did not find a sofa.

Rhys's eyebrows twitched. Was he so averse to company he wouldn't make any attempt? Rhys was avoidant himself in many ways. But when he had to host others he tried to at least provide the proper minimum of equipment necessary for social interaction. When the Welshman demanded satisfaction with an explanation, Texas paled and very haltingly explained:

"...kinda had an accident...fell asleep...I thought I had extinguished my cigarette...I didn't. Windows were open and the wind blew it out of the ashtray...Landed on the rug. Rug caught. Sofa caught. I put it out. Cuz I have a fire extinguisher. I put it out. So the rest of the house is fine. But neither Al or I could fix the sofa."

"..." Which wasn't the answer Rhys expected at all.

"But I quit!" Tex stated proudly. "Went cold turkey after that. Been on the straight and narrow for almost fifteen years now."

Spain's smile was painfully forced, "You...you smoked?"

"Well, cigarettes. And I mean, not always. I have quit before...and then ya know, started again cuz...stress...but...fifteen years! That's...that's the longest consecutive streak I've had!"

Spain nodded slowly and then more vigorously, "I am proud of you."

Tex rolled eyes.

"I am," Spain continued with difficulty, "I...I know how hard that can be...I...I know that addictive habits can be-"

Tex walked outside to talk to the drivers of the moving trucks.

"-Inherited." Spain murmured as he watched him go. "...Lovi and I watched a documentary about it when we were visiting Feliciano and Ludwig...I'm sorry...you got that from me..."

"Wait." Rhys frowned. "He hasn't had a sofa in fifteen years? Has it been fifteen years since they emptied this unit?"

Spain looked around suspiciously and then called out, "Everyone, watch out for 'critters!'"

* * *

Arthur set the medicine down and Mathieu immediately offered Alfred a sip of juice to wash down the bitter flavor. Alfred had seemed a little wary of having his brother tend him at first, given their interactions lately, but after two hours and no malicious mishaps, he finally seemed to relax.

Arthur himself still had some reservations (even after the ice pond rescue) and had quietly asked more than once if Mathieu was certain he wanted to assist with this. The lad could very easily fall ill himself. But the Canadian was determined.

 _Mathieu was pouring grape juice into a plastic Spiderman decorated glass when he countered, "I didn't know how to help with the wendigo...or the faerie court...but when he was out on the ice and in trouble. I knew what to do. I_ _ **knew**_ _. And I know how to do this."_

He was currently laying down next to Alfred. When Alfred coughed, Mathieu would rub his back and shoulders consolingly.

Arthur made sure the Kleenex box was stationed within reach on Alfred's bedside table before stretching out on the bed on Alfred's other side.

Thankfully, the child's fever had broken a while earlier, which made Americat's warm bulk more bearable. The cat was determined to smother his owner with affection.

"My pretty kitty," Alfred crooned as his pet butted his face.

"Now where did we leave off?" Arthur asked, pulling Alfred's laptop over; Alfred had a digital copy of _Alice in Wonderland_.

"Tea Party," Alfred answered at once as he scratched behind Americat's ears.

"Ah, yes," Arthur smiled.

Alfred loved that he adopted different voices for the characters and giggled at the especially silly ones, as Arthur hoped he would.

It seemed that being sick made him less reserved and he stared up at Arthur rather adoringly as the man entertained him.

It didn't escape Arthur's notice though, that this all occurred when Texas was far out of sight and earshot.

He wasn't quite sure how to broach that with Alfred though...not without sounding hypercritical of the boy's brother.

And he didn't want to spoil the mood.

It hadn't been easy combatting Alfred's disappointment over his inability to accompany Texas to their storage unit.

Arthur had to pull out all the stops to make himself excellent company. He made sure there were crazy straws for Alfred's drinks, that Reilley's stew was served in a Superman bowl, that all of Alfred's stuffed animals were accounted for; they were currently sitting on two cushions beneath a dresser drawer that had been pulled out and had a blanket draped over it—fashioning it into a makeshift tent or curtain. It reminded Arthur a bit of maharaja tents. And he tried not to imagine how amused Shakespeare would've been to have seen Arthur perform in front of an audience of toys.

Still…

He looked down into Alfred's blue eyes that were happy, if tired, and knew he could endure any teasing for this little one's sake.

A few chapters later, he tucked the sleeping child in snugly, patted Americat fondly when he curled up near Alfred, plugged in the tacky lava lamp, dimmed the rest of the lights, and Mathieu came with him to the kitchen to wash dishes.

There they discussed some of Margaret Atwood's books, CETA, the importance of opera, and finally, Texas.

"So, you two had a row?"

Mathieu nodded. "I...I started it. I know I've been really...focused on me, lately."

"Not a crime by any stretch," Arthur assured as he washed and Mathieu dried. "You have to help yourself before helping others."

"But I feel bad. It wasn't even until we were half-way through that I realized...and then I...feel bad now that it took me so long to realize that...he's off. He's definitely off."

Arthur sighed.

"I mean, everything with Alfred has been pretty stressful."

Green eyes flashed with warning.

"I'm not blaming Al for it! I'm just saying, you'd think it'd be a comfort to Tex to have everyone stepping in? To-to help? That he doesn't have to assure Alfred all by himself. Except-"

"He very much wanted that and was more than willing to force such a situation when he coerced Alfred to leave us. And was trying to plan a celebration when we intercepted them?"

"Uh...yes. This was...Tex's plan. Not Al's. I mean, I wasn't sure at first. Because Al's flighty. Sometimes he just leaves in the middle of one of our weekends. I always thought it was just his nature but..."

"You know, when Alfred left with Grym for that McDonald's disaster?"

Mathieu nodded.

"Texas was dragged along too. Right before though...right before it all went arseways, Alfred went on and on about the two of them having an adventure in the Ether. Lad was unconscious then like the rest of you. And it didn't seem to matter to Alfred. And then, when Texas woke up in that take-away restaurant. He...hardly seemed surprised at all."

"..."

"And now Texas dragged Alfred here. Regardless of his reluctance or even his illness," Green eyes narrowed in dawning comprehension. "They're used to treating each other like that."

 _"You just don't get it!_

 _We didn't_ _ **need**_ _the Sun!" Alfred hissed._

 _"We became the Sun. Suns. Like Tatooine!_

 _We had each other…didn't need...any of you._

 _We found each other after you left us in the dark!_

 _When you Empires grow bored, you throw us away_

 _...like broken playthings..."_

"Like ragdolls," Arthur murmured.

 _"It'll be great Tex. Just you and me again._

 _It's simpler that way. I'm sorry I got greedy._

 _You're more than enough."_

Arthur shuddered; it was more than unsettling to realize that...that was precisely how Texas would've wanted it.

Around 9:40pm while Arthur and Mathieu were watching the news, the front door opened and Tex began barking orders to the men behind him on where to set things.

Arthur stared as men unloaded box after box into nooks and corners...and then came the furniture. Apparently, everything was bigger in Texas—the spaciousness of the abode was quickly being swallowed up.

Arthur struggled to get out of a bean bag chair. "You said you were just getting necessities! Did you decide to unload the whole bloody-" he eyed a taxidermy owl with trepidation.

"Yes!" Spain declared almost breathless with delight. "We're getting him all moved in and comfy!"

Two solemn faced men in business suits were accompanying the movers and went to talk to Stuart several times. They were equipped with professional earbuds and clipboards and on noticing the discoloration of the ceiling, pointed it out to each other. Realizing they were government agents, Arthur and Antonio pounced on the opportunity to make demands.

A safety inspection! Lawn service and sprinkler system check! Fumigators! Deep carpet cleaning! Wood floor refinishing! Tile resealing! Roof re-tiling on the far end!

And both men finished with a complaint about the sliding glass door on the far side of the courtyard that had a crack and needed replacement.

When the agents looked a little overwhelmed and began suggesting that they could compile a list of repairmen America and Texas could hire, each nation gave testimonials that _**his**_ government always made sure his living arrangements were up to code free of cost; didn't the U.S. do the same for their personifications? Certain funds were set aside for England's use, whether it was for his home, travel expenses, or miscellaneous needs. Cnut had put that into practice to encourage England's cooperation centuries ago. William of Normandy continued it. By this point, England damn well expected it. He gave his government valuable insight into the political climate of the masses, provided knowledge of the land's resources, and was a deep well of historical wisdom—to name but a few skills.

"We may need to team up more often," Arthur admitted after the men went to make a phone call on the matter. "America could use our supp-"

"No. This time for Tejas," Spain cut in.

"Wot?"

"I have already helped you! I helped you rescue your son. I got America out of the park even though _my son_ was still in danger. I helped fight all the wendigo. Helped protect your brothers from wendigo. Before that, I helped you with chores for your son's house while he was gone. After that, my son left Christmas with me, early, to help your son. Your son calls my son from me. You go somewhere. Your son goes to you. My son follows when there's trouble. Mijo is loyal. Mijo makes sacrifices. Mijo needs the care and the attention now. _**You**_ need to help _**me**_ this time!"

"W-well I…" England felt his face heat up. Because...Spain had a point.

Spain's green eyes narrowed and his voice lowered dangerously, " _ **You**_ owe _**me**_."

Arthur forced himself to stand up straight and not be cowed. "Very well. How might I be of assistance?"

"I read your Facebook post, Inglaterra. May Day. I want in."

"W-well, it's really the boys' trip. They invited us-"

"I want _**IN**_ , pirata. You make this happen."

* * *

Read & Review Please! : DDD


	28. Chapter 28

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia, FaceTime, Pinterest, or the Bible: " _Who among you, if your son or ox falls into a cistern, would not immediately pull him out on the sabbath day?" - Luke 14:5_

 **Warning:** Some profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Starcrossed shoes. Family drama. Me taking a crack at Spanish which I can fix retroactively (if it's too godawful XD). Spain's struggle of being a hardcore Catholic with a rebel son. Some fluff. The U.S. actually has a long history since its colonial days of being paranoid about Catholicism (thanks Henry VIII, Martin Luther, and John Calvin and your legacies). (This actually lasts an incredibly long time.) (Fun side note: there is some modern era controversy over whether rosaries ought to be worn as jewelry since their function is prayer, but I think Spain's of the mindset of older styled Christianity (and I mean oooolder). Originally, as long as you got them to practice, they could combine it any way and it works (the RCC's obsession with heresy and Orthodoxy comes on gradually before it gains full steam). Seriously, if you ever get the chance to read Pope Gregory I's advice to Augustine on converting the Celtic peoples of the U.K. to Catholicism in the 6th Century, he's brilliantly chill about how best to go about it.) And centuries later, if you want to see some weird things the RCC and Celtic Christians decided to split hairs on (pun), look up tonsuring. Spain folk remedies for colds: onion in a bowl to deal with bacteria in the air, special teas, etc.

 **AN:** Wow. Seriously people, school. SCHOOL! All this reading, man...is kicking my butt. As if I didn't have a life beyond school in my previous semester, in this one I don't even have, like, a ghostlife...ya know, like the ectoplasmic residue of one? Sooo that's why y'all have had to wait so long for this chap. XD Thank you for your reviews and your patience and I hope you enjoy:

 **Chapter 28: Why Do You Hafta Be An Evil Force Keeping Them Apart?!  
**

* * *

Arthur set down a plate of waffles Rhys had cooked in front of Alfred and ruffled the child's hair.

One look at the meal revealed that Rhys was getting strangely sentimental...and attached to Pinterest. He'd made the boy "Easter waffles" in the shape of a rabbit with an exorbitant amount of whipped cream, strawberries, and sprinkles. And he'd lurked in the doorway upon the delivery of his creation to see its reception.

"Eeeeee! That's so coool!" Alfred had squealed in delight and snapped a picture of it on his phone before reaching for the maple syrup and drowning his breakfast in it. He pitched his voice a little louder. "D-diolch!"

And though Arthur simply winced because the pronunciation wasn't quite right, his brother ducked back into the kitchen.

Rhys was very particular and protective about his language. Alfred had likely offended him.

When Arthur returned there to load up his own plate and pour a fair amount of baked beans on the side, and inquired after him, his brother rather defensively insisted he was perfectly fine, why wouldn't he be?!

Arthur sighed and apologized for the lack of finesse in his child's delivery, perhaps if they were both involved in teaching him Welsh, they could smooth it out.

Rhys got a bit angry at him then. And he was surprised to be informed that...Rhys _hadn't_ been teaching the child little phrases here and there as he'd supposed...Alfred had remembered…

And Arthur realized he had misread his reaction. Rhys hadn't been annoyed...he'd been overcome.

Alistair had warned him that Rhys had taken being "forgotten" harder than expected. It was just, given their brother's usual stoicism…

It was hard to register that he'd been...truly hurt by it…

Particularly, as he and his nephew had a rather rough falling out due to 1812; Alfred had brutally broken his uncle's leg during a confrontation and the result had naturally colored Rhys's interactions with him following it…

He hadn't blamed Rhys at all and tried to limit how often the two were forced together. Tried to guard his own mouth and not to speak too tenderly about Alfred out of respect for their estrangement...though he didn't always succeed.

Arthur was the boy's father...and even though the teen hurt him repeatedly...and though they had near constant rows with each other...ultimately, he could forgive him anything… because he had to be able to see him...he'd go mad if...

Still, attempts to get Alfred to be more considerate to his uncle failed and Arthur came to assume the coldness between them was mutual.

Only it wasn't.

The nature of the estrangement…was lopsided.

Rhys remembered.

Alfred didn't.

What Rhys interpreted as deliberate disrespect and callousness was simply...the icy indifference of a void.

Much like Arthur had suffered, all the good memories of him were sealed off. Only worse...for Rhys...every memory was gone.

It gave new insight to all the times America had pointed out Wales and gone, " _Who's that?"_

They'd all assumed he was being cruel and impertinent. But that hex had been working itself fiercely over him for him to "forget Spring." And the full meaning of that was still lost to them…

 _Dammit boy, what exactly did you wish?_

England was remembered in the worst light possible...and assigned the responsibility for monstrous acts he'd never commit.

1812 was a blank with violent consequences.

Wales...didn't exist.

God, if America had...looked at him with those bonnie blue eyes...and not known him…

It would've broken his heart, but he'd have known immediately. And there was no way he would've been able to let it lie. They could've had that hex off him sooner.

Instead, it festered and his relationship with his Welsh uncle remained strained and static until Rhys's quiet anger and disapproval and chilly reception of him slowly erected opposition in Alfred.

Rhys had 1812. Alfred had Rhys's treatment of him.

Once that was made clear…Rhys moved to scrap those barriers.

When Reilley had commented on Rhys's swift change of attitude (because he wasn't someone who rushed into anything), Rhys had murmured, abashed, that he'd been " _...locked in a staring contest with a shadow."_

And his brother was usually so composed…

That hearing regret in his voice…

Yes, Arthur still had some reservations about the two of them because Rhys just wasn't as gentle with children as Arthur was…

And his manner of dealing with traumas wasn't quite what Arthur had in mind…ever...

But…

He'd worked awfully hard on a breakfast whose details would be devoured in minutes.

And he carried a lot of children's books without ever complaining about the weight.

And he dutifully answered all of Alfred's questions when Alistair and Reilley would've told the little one to "belt up already."

And being remembered, even if it was just in sudden spontaneous pieces...was enough to…

Arthur blinked hard. He'd write a thank you or...something...or-or-or...something...

On Arthur's return to the dining room, he sat down beside his child. Alfred's countenance lit up and he swung his slippered feet joyfully.

"Happy Easter!" he burst.

"A very happy one, indeed," he agreed, giving the child's cheek a gentle, though mischievous, pinch.

The fever hadn't returned, and that alone was enough to buoy Arthur's spirits considerably.

The dining table and chairs had been set up the previous night and Alfred had woken up, delighted to find everything inside.

 _He spun around in one clear spot and laughed. "It's like we live here again!"_

Which hurt him…

...thinking of the boys...

Surviving in hollowed out shelters instead of homes...

Alistair brought over some sausages and set two down on Alfred's plate, before leaving the whole grease-dripping platter in the middle of the table. Arthur hastily moved some napkins under it before the new furniture was damaged.

Rhys eventually joined them and sat near Alistair and Reilley and went a little pink when Alfred sang his culinary praises.

Mathieu had opted for pancakes and eggybread, and seemed in good spirits as he gave his brothers "Happy Easter" greetings.

At the head of the table, Texas was eating a...mixture of breakfast foods; a waffle, a pancake, a breakfast taco. There was syrup on one side and salsa on the other; the meat dishes were dipped into either depending on his whim.

It looked like a stomach ache and when he muttered as much under his breath, Alfred whispered back. "No way, dude-er-Dad. He's got a cast iron stomach. Like, even stronger than mine. And nothing's ever too spicy. He breaks those diner competition people and whatever spicy death sauce they whip up. Let's put it this way...he can eat a Carolina Reaper. And if he cooks stuff for himself when I'm not around...I don't take my chances with the tupperware leftovers...He likes ghost peppers."

Spain, who was on the Texan's right, was trying to plead his case for a Catholic mass, "I did not make you go to Easter Vigil last night. Today's morning service will be like your regular Protestant serv-"

Reilley had already volunteered to join him, but it was obvious who he really wanted to accompany him.

Tex yawned and gave him a flat, irritable look. "You said I didn't have to celebrate with-"

"Sí...but...I thought... _hoped_...you would change your mind."

"Whellllp. I didn't."

"O-okay...which church...will you be going to, then? My phone has nav soooo we...we can drop you off. And then I pick you up and we have nice father-son lunch toget-"

"Guess, you'll be getting a cab," Alistair smirked at his Irish brother.

Texas chewed and swallowed, "I don't see it happening this year. Al's still sick, I don't wanna go without him."

Antonio stared, faltered, and plastered an unconvincing smile, "W-where's your Bible? I...I can bookmark some pages for you-"

"Don't bother. I got _him_ , Captain Pilgrim Pants over there, can quote Scripture like you won't believe."

Alfred grinned, "Well yeah! Or the Puritans…" he abruptly got a haunted look, "get upset."

Arthur should never have left him in their settlements. It was just...some of the other towns were so lowly moralled or besieged with epidemics, he thought they were the safer option in 1690.

"Otherwise, I'll turn the T.V. on. There's a televangelist gabbing on there somewhere."

"...so...you don't talk to priests at all now, huh?" Spain looked troubled.

"Oi, I don't think I like your tone. I ain't faithless, ya know?"

"...you're not Orthodox, that's for sure," Antonio grumbled.

"Papi, I'm eating and I don't wanna deal with you being Catholic and crazy right now. No Inquisition until after I finish my waffle, kay?"

Antonio got flustered, "When was the last time you went to Confession?"

"As I'm not a Catholic anymore, some time."

"When?!"

"Some time right after ' _Don't hold your breath.'_ Heck, you should be glad I'm anything following the Alamo. Thank Al, for that," he pointed his fork.

Spain physically flinched at the implication and abandoned his breakfast and silverware to fling his arms around his offspring.

"Cuz this doesn't interfere with my eating."

"You should've come to Papi with your moments of doubt and darkness. I could have taken you to the Church. Helped you with your trials."

"Yeah, well. Guess what?"

"¿Qué?"

"I was busy! If you were so goddamned-"

"Don't blasp-"

"Worried about what I was up to, maybe you should've gotten off your ass and sailed over-"

"The Carlist Wars, mijo. My monarchs did not want me leaving when there was so much turmoil-"

"Didn't stop you from going to Carnevale with the Italies-"

Spain's eyes widened and he looked a little shamefaced. "Tejas-"

Texas used an arm to shove him back over to his own seat. "Yeah, yeah, there was always something. Cry me a river. Whatever-"

England sighed. Yes, Spain really did need an ally, didn't he? But how could he help without it being obvious and causing some manner of alienation or distrust? With their luck, they'd be painted as Big Bad, Old World foes uniting against them.

There was a possibility that if he just told Alfred right out that Antonio was desperate to mend ties with Texas and wanted to come to May Day, he might appeal to the boy's heart...particularly, if he played up the opportunity for father and son bonding.

Arthur, himself, was hopeful for that with Mathieu and Alfred.

But there was a chance it could backfire. Alfred was very loyal to his Texan brother and very good at suppressing his feelings. He might even feel sympathetic to Antonio's cause and it wouldn't come across to anyone...except, perhaps, Rhys.

Once Alfred chose to stand by something...he stood by it...heart be damned...as Arthur learned too well.

It was a cruel irony that all those lectures about principle and duty and holding to one's word that he'd stressed to his young colony had been remembered and adhered to in the worst way imaginable.

All those good intentions and they bit him in the arse.

He'd have to be clever, to maneuver Antonio into the event without causing an upset.

It was made more difficult because the man just...wasn't subtle.

Spain dramatically pushed his half-eaten meal away. He morosely pulled something out from his pocket and fiddled with it. He kept throwing obvious looks that suggested he longed for Texas to glance over and comment on what he was holding.

But the boy had a talent for defying him.

Reilley set his napkin down, "Oi, Spain, we best be off if we're to be in time."

The Spaniard sighed and stood up, "I...I wanted us to be at church but...I see now...Here." He took off the Texan's hat.

"Hey! Nobody just gets to grab the hat-"

He set a strand of beads over Texas and then set the cowboy hat back on.

Arthur appraised that it was a rather handsome cross, solid silver, and adorned with a mix of turquoise and white quartzite beads.

"There. I put it on a longer cord. Added beads. Still has the turquoise from your home. And now has quartz...from mine. But I tried to pattern it so you can still count them easily..."

"I don't count the ros…" Tex broke off and sighed and then studied the jewelry and let it drop. "I didn't expect to get this back."

Spain reached over and straightened it with the same sentimental look England knew he got whenever he helped America with the unruly lapels of a coat. And England could almost see a much younger Texas getting the necklace tangled and Spain fixing it.

"When Mejico wrote me saying you were dead, I would not believe it. My line was strong. How could that be? I thought, no, impossible...vicious lie...then she brought me that." He swallowed and gestured to the cross. "You _always_ had that with you."

Texas stared over at Alfred.

Spain wasn't a terribly observant man but he caught that exchange and, in a show of genuine anger, sat back down.

"Er, Antonio?" Reilley muttered. "Mass?"

"So? How did Mejico get it?"

"W-well," Alfred began.

"You don't have to tell him anything," Texas spat.

"I deserve to know this!"

"Well," Alfred scratched an ear. "It kinda started when I won Tex's glasses in a card game."

Mathieu set down the maple syrup and stared. "You bet those?"

"I was drunk."

"You...you _let_ him?"

"Hey!...I was also drunk," Alfred argued. "...and I lost a shoe! It'd be something if he wanted both. But he only took one! The bastard!"

Texas looked very satisfied. "...it's still funny. Cuz it's right there."

The occupants of the dining room turned to see that balanced on one stack of crates in the corner was a young man's western boot. It was very old and creased from use.

Alfred's jaw dropped and he wailed, "The other one's all the way back in Virginia!"

"Yup."

"You!"

"Mmhmm?"

"Why can't you just let them be together? Why do you hafta be an evil force keeping them apart?!"

"Cuz...I won that one and that's how I like it."

"Jerk. Anyways, so I was wearing them, the glasses not the shoe, and people kept asking and I was all, ' _They're Tex's'_ but everybody heard, ' _They're Texas'_ like...it was all that was left of him-"

"Sometimes, I wish I'd bet the spurs. I'd have liked being associated with that. That would've been cool. Ka-ching. Ka-ching. What's that sound? _**Texas**_."

Arthur frowned, "And you didn't correct this assumption? Either of you?"

Alfred gave a guilty smile, "Well, I kinda thought it was funny."

Arthur stared, blood going cold.

"-let Tex know. I planned on surprising everyone at a Hallow's Eve celebration with him reappearing. Man, that would've scared y'all. I'd have won that year. Ya know, especially if I'd put him in a bloody sheet and ripped up military uniform and he was all, 'Ooooooh, hooooola, I am the ghost of the República de T-"

"Funny?" Spain muttered in a dark tone. "You think this _**funny**_?"

"Well, yeah, because...because...anyways, I told him and he just…" Alfred looked over to his brother.

"I saw my out and took it. But I knew glasses wouldn't be enough. I had to give somethin' better."

Spain scowled and his tone darkened, "I had that cross made the year you were born."

"..."

"I had it blessed by Pope-"

"I don't care."

Spain's green eyes flashed.

Tex shrugged. "But I knew it'd freak Mexico out and if I could convince her...she had such a fat mouth, she'd spread it around. And she did."

Antonio's voice hardened. "And you do not feel any remorse for this? For your hermana? For your hermanos? For me?"

Arthur swallowed. Because he just...didn't want to imagine how horrible...

"Not a bit."

Arthur's eyes widened.

A muscle ticked in Spain's jaw. "We grieved for you."

Tex rolled his eyes. "Hey, you're gonna miss your Mass. There's gonna be traffic."

Spain stood up and the chair screeched and though it was obvious he was furious, he beseeched him again.

And Arthur knew how hard that was, stamping down the scorching anger and hurt, so the bridge between parent and child wouldn't be burned.

"¿Viene usted conmigo, por favor? We talk more."

"No, there ain't anymore to talk ab-"

"I _**grieved**_ for you."

Arthur flinched at the palpable pain in that. He knew that horror. But he'd been relieved of it almost immediately—finding a transformed Alfred. And it didn't matter that his boy had changed drastically as long as he could hold him close.

But Antonio…

Antonio…

Had nothing…

No warning...

No last moments…

No body…

A cross, a pair of spectacles, and a void nothing could mend...were what his boy left behind…

And he had to try and live with that...

Tex waved a dismissive hand. "Okay, okay, I'm sure that was a rough message. I'll give you that, geez...dramatic...but you're fine now."

Arthur shuddered at the callousness.

Spain slapped a hand against the table. "Yes! Because my grief ended when Feli send me picture of you at meeting! In restaurant. I drop glass was holding, go everywhere. Older. But I know you. I know you anywhere. I go, ' _¡Lovi, Lovi, mira! Es mi bebé_ -"

Arthur looked over in sympathy. His oft rival and foe and ally was beyond upset. He was losing his command of English and his accent was hard and angry and breaking through.

"..."

Spain lost his composure and his voice shook as he spoke.

Arthur's Spanish was far from perfect but he felt his throat close because he knew enough...to understand Antonio was talking about the horror of having his son taken from him and the pain and the unfairness of it and why would God do that to him? And now knowing it was a sick joke? And couldn't Texas at least do him the decency of telling him _**why**_ he made him suffer like that?

Texas rolled his eyes. "Jesus C-"

"No tomarás el nombre de Dios en vano-"

But Texas wouldn't have it and stood up, snarling, "What's your grief even worth? You never knew me. None of you did. Not one of you ever came to visit me 'less ya wanted something and were frickin' desperate. Cuz there wasn't anything out there where I was at. What was I? A buffer. I was that seat at your table, that last fringe family member to invite to stuff because, ' _Oh yea, we need the whole familia for this one...even what's-his-face,'_ the only reason anybody even knew which one I was, half the time, was because I was ' _the one with the glasses!'_ How frickin' sad is that?!"

* * *

Alfred blew his nose with a Kleenex. It was amazing how Arthur always seemed to have a packet of tissues on him at all times.

"Are you certain you're still alright?" Arthur asked—eyebrows knit together. "It's awfully soon for you to be out."

His uncle Rhys looked similarly grim and shook his head gravely as he gave stats about the likelihood of pneumonia when colds weren't properly cared for.

Alfred forced a grin. No. No, he felt pretty rough and the thought of being home and in his pajamas sounded pretty good. But...he had to put on a brave face. He balled the tissue up and shoved it in his pocket, preparing to be on the lookout for a trashcan.

"I'm feeling a lot better," he lied.

Arthur hmmed at that, looking far from convinced.

Rhys scoffed.

Alfred shifted a little uncomfortably. Pews were always tough on the butt.

Arthur sighed and pulled him onto his lap. "Poor thing."

"Yeah," Alfred confessed, "I'm still a little achy."

Arthur nodded and rubbed his back soothingly. Alfred snuggled into his father's chest and was considering trying to take a cat nap when—

"You see?" Texas hissed from beside them. "This is how he gets his way. Any means necessary."

Yup, the group of them, minus Alistair, had ended up at a very crowded Catholic Mass. And it took them several vehicles to get there.

But…

Alfred couldn't work up any resentment not even his old shudders of fear over "Papists," that usually haunted him like a bogeyman for most of his early years as a nation, were in effect anymore.

The truth was...he felt sorry for the old dude.

"Bro, you totally made him cry."

He heard Arthur make a grunt of disapproval that suggested he sided with Alfred on the point.

Because yeah…

That was hella uncomfortable. Especially cuz he'd wanted a hug that Tex just wouldn't give him. His brother just sorta stood there, arms crossed, staring at the wall, while Spain cried on him.

Tex didn't quite meet his eyes, "So?"

"C'mon, that's kinda cold. Even Alaska would've given an awkward back pat."

Brown eyes slid to meet his. "Hey, nothin' I said wasn't true."

"Yeah, well...I'm not saying your childhood didn't suck hard...and that your family didn't play a huge part in that...cuz they totally did...and you've got issues now but I don't think your dad'll survive if you drop the hammer."

"...don't need 'im," Tex flicked a finger against a book of hymns, stored in front of him.

Alfred stared and he felt his dad freeze up like he had one time during WWI.

 _They were running from machine gun fire and dammit, he felt ill prepared. Battles on lands that weren't his own left his feet feeling uncertain and he tended to be clumsy for the first few weeks as he adjusted...which definitely didn't endear him to England and gave the Briton new fuel to berate him with._

 _And then there was the fact that everything about this war was so different than most of the ones he'd been in. So much team coordination was involved. Where were America's solo missions? Too much hand holding. Too much planning. Too much we have to do everything just so. And even though England had stressed the difference multiple times. He didn't want to come across as some incompetent lackey so he tacked down his bravado as tight as he could and pretended to be invincible. And it seemed to work because Arthur didn't use kid gloves with him and that was fine._

 _It was fine that other former colonies and current territories were treated nicer than him. It kept things simple between them. That's how he liked it anyway. After the war was done...he could just go back to America. No strings. It was better that way._

 _Kept things practical, sterile, simple. If he did die, it was good to know that England wouldn't waste time lugging him around like Texas would and get himself killed. He'd just be left behind. And then when he reanimated he could fight however the hell he wanted without having England bark orders at him about "how" he was supposed to battle enemies and what was "fair play" and what wasn't. He had too many rules._

 _They'd been ambushed and they were the only two that had made it and so they were on a retreat. They were supposed to be heading to safety. But when they rounded the corner, Arthur stopped in his tracks and Alfred bumped hard into him._

 _His old man had still been an Empire then...so he didn't knock him down. Rather, he was the one that landed flat on his butt. And being there...low to the ground and behind England's legs, reminded him of when he was a child and there'd been a raid._

 _Arthur must've gotten trapped in a similar vein of memory because his hand found Alfred's face and he ordered, "Don't look." But it was too late and Arthur's hand only blocked one eye; his troop had already bit it._

"Sooner he gets it," Tex grumbled. "The sooner things can go back to normal."

Alfred nodded. It wasn't looking like Tex and his dad were heading for a happily ever after reconciliation.

Tex just wasn't feelin' it.

"Oh. Okay." Because...if that was how he felt, that was how he felt.

He got the impression that Arthur wasn't too stoked about either of their responses though. His old man held him very tightly after that and breathed kinda funny.

Antonio returned from communion, arms behind his back and smiling, "You should go too. There's plenty."

Texas hunkered down in his seat, arms crossed, and glowering.

"Ohhh, heaven help me...teenagers. Be mad at me, don't be mad at God. Go up."

"C'mon, Tex. Catholic Easter, here we come! Here we go," Al wriggled for his dad to let him go and grabbed his brother's hand. "Dry cracker time!"

"I hate it so bad. The songs. The smells. Aaaaall the old wood and B.O.," but for all his bellyaching, Tex followed Al up. "And it's so hot in here, too."

Yeah, all the people made it kinda warm but...he was surprised to see his brother was sweating. He usually had a high tolerance for heat; it was something he liked to boast about.

When they returned, Antonio was chatting with a strangely amiable, silent Arthur, "Oh, this reminds me of when we were both Catholics! You remember, don't you? We used to have meetings and feasts and marriages and watch little royals get baptized! So cute!"

Arthur gave a weak smile that turned more genuine as Alfred clambered onto his lap.

"Made me so proud. Well, you know, until I had my own babies. Now, that was exhilarat-" The Spaniard broke off and grinned at Alfred and then at Tex, who shuffled back over with considerable less enthusiasm. Antonio patted the spot on the bench next to him and Tex let out a long suffering sigh as he sat down.

"Soooo, there are Easter Eggs!" Antonio looked at Alfred and winked. "I already talked to a woman when I was in line, Isabel. Good name. All women I meet with this name. Good women. She gave me this for you. They had extra." He presented a small plastic Easter basket. "So you can have Pagan fun."

"Our family's favorite," Reilley snarked from the bench behind them.

"Dude, that's so nice. Awww."

"We got Easter Eggs," Tex grumbled. "At home."

"We do?"

"I got the plastic ones."

"When?"

"Last night."

"Dude, seriously, when? Dad says you guys were all up late movin' furniture around."

"..."

"Well, _**that**_ explains why you're such a crabby apple today."

"It does?" Spain looked puzzled.

"Al," Tex warned.

"You pulled an all-nighter. Duuuuude. You're always a pain in the butt when you don't get enough slee-"

"Hey! I knew you were gonna be all, ' _Waah! We didn't do nothin' fun for Easter,'_ so I dragged myself out and drove to-"

"You did not sleep?" Spain murmured, looking concerned. "That is no good, how can you stay healt-"

"Why do you think I let you drive?"

"...because you trust Papi to follow the rules of the road better than the pirata?"

Texas struggled with that. "Fine. Granted. You are a better driver than limey psycho and co. But I know when I can't be the designated driver."

He massaged the bridge of his nose.

Spain scrutinized him hard then.

"What?" Tex demanded irritably.

He didn't reply but immediately reached a hand to touch his cheek and then forehead.

"¿Qué diablos crees que haces?"

"You feel warm," he noted quietly.

"O' course I'm hot under the collar. I'm angry and this places is crawling with people. It's a furnace."

Antonio frowned and felt his neck. He then compared with his own temperature. "No, _**you**_ are warm."

Alfred grimaced, "Sorry, bro."

"I ain't sick...physically. I'm just tired of having a bunch of Euros bossing me ar-"

Arthur sighed, "So we have two sick children now."

"I ain't a child."

Antonio set a hand on his son's shoulder and sighed wearily, "C'mon, mijo. I take you home. I wish you had told me you weren't feeling well."

"Don't tell me what to do. Al, you wanna do that Easter Egg hunt here first?" Tex asked just to be contrite.

"Uhh…"

"Well, Lone Ranger?" Tex demanded.

"Ummm…"

Al looked around and saw Mathieu shaking his head and murmuring, "You don't have to."

Cuz he was kinda tired...and hungry...and...achy. And he probably couldn't handle two Easter Egg hunts...

"Let's all go home," Arthur pushed forward. "Alfred's still ill and if Texas has caught it too, he's going to come down hard in a matter of hours. Which means you're contagious. You don't want to get all these nice people sick, do you?"

Which hit Tex's chord of gallantry, and his expression fell.

* * *

Tex was frowning out the window when his nose started to run.

Awww, dammit. He'd caught Al's cold for sure.

He looked ahead and saw Al's family was driving way over the speed limit. Yeah, Spain was a better driver than the U.K. nations. Only...taking advantage of that meant agreeing to be stuck with him in close quarters.

He sniffled.

He'd been feeling a little rough since his trip to the store but he'd put it off as simple exhaustion.

He discretely tried to wipe his nose on the cuff of his sleeve without attracting notice.

"Poor Junior."

To no avail.

"Oh Toni, why did you not tell me you were feeling poorly? We could have stayed home if this was why. ' _Who among you, i_ _f your son or ox falls into a cistern, would not immediately pull him out on the sabbath day?_ '" Antonio frowned at the fields of pasture. "I should've cut an onion and put it in a bowl for you...with you and Alfredo sharing a room. Gah, I am angry at me. I will do that tonight. I will remember."

"I just need a good drink of whisky. That'll burn it out."

"No, I will call Stewart. He will get Propolis, I will make you tea. You will rest."

"No, I got stuff I gotta finish 'fore this thing lays me out."

"You will make yourself sicker!"

"I gotta prep Al's Easter Eggs and hide them."

"Okay, I help."

"And my house is a mess so that'll work for the Hunt but after I gotta try and make sense of it or we'll be tripping over-"

"Papi will order the house. You will-"

"And I really oughta go through my emails, my box is full again-"

The truck parked in the driveway and Tex reached over and grabbed the keys out of the ignition.

He entered the house, hung his keys, saw Alistair had taken lunch upon himself to make...which was at least one thing he didn't have to worry about.

And Al's kin had made themselves useful by setting the table.

He ate a couple bites of the roast and then hurried himself along to deal with the eggs. He'd bought some candy and stickers to hide in them. He had to do that now and quick. And then he had to hide 'em all.

As he'd predicted Al loved having an Easter Egg hunt and he did his best not to be too "crabby." Hell, even Matt tried to pick up the slack by letting Al ride on his shoulders for the high up eggs.

And then the U.K. wanted to take various holiday pictures and Al had to set up the T.V. so Spain could wish "Happy Easter" to his brood via a ridiculous amount of split screens which kept the idiota out of his hair for a while.

Tex had to get all he could in order. It was bad enough that Al was sick and now he was going under too.

And with both of them down for the count that left a dangerous vacuum of authority and European Nations loved calling the shots.

Old World Powers...tch...

He got through constructing Al's nice bed and Rhys helped him move their nicer dressers in.

He wiped his arm across his sweaty forehead and put up with Arthur administering bitter medicine to him and Al at various intervals.

He moved crates into the proper rooms with Reilley and Matt's help.

He heaved a china hutch with Alistair to the dining room.

He didn't trust anyone but himself to maneuver Alfred's treasured grandfather clock into its hallowed spot in the hall.

And he put up with his father pestering him every step of the way after his FaceTime chat with the familia ended.

" _Okay, I think this is enough, mijo."_

" _More than enough!"_

" _I would like you to stop now, please."_

" _You are very red. I think your fever is worse."_

" _Here, I will do this, you can-"_

" _I don't think you should be handling power tools right now-"_

" _You worry me, mijo. Descansa un rato...por favor..."_

"Dinner is ready!" Alistair bellowed.

He laughed lightly as he heard Al ring a cowbell. He used to do that as a signal for him to come in from working outside.

He wiped his face on his sleeve.

Only...

He got up too quick from where he'd been constructing his own bed frame together and the room tilted. He flung an arm out to grab at the wall and missed but...didn't fall.

"I got you. Papi's got you. Rest time now, yes?"

Very reluctantly, he nodded, "...Yeah."

Antonio sighed in relief and remained annoyingly close, even after he'd gotten his balance back—hovering at his elbow. He almost tripped into him twice but rather than getting a hint, his former colonizer just got closer.

Europeans, they just had no sense of personal space.

He ate about half his plate, showered, got dressed again, and took another crack at his bed.

But it was getting harder to concentrate and he was starting to get a little worried about his coordination.

He needed the screws to go in straight or he'd splinter the wood and he'd have to fix it...which would be a pain.

His hand hovered unsurely on the screwdriver and it was plucked from his grasp.

He blinked dumbly at his empty hand.

"Toni, I finish this. You rest in my guestroom. You will know it is mine because it has creepy owl in it now. Reilley and Alistair have been decorating with those. Anyway, you rest. I get you after."

He huffed and stood up, because at this point, the odds were in Spain's favor on who'd screw it up less.

And then he tripped a bit over his own tools, which was hella embarrassing, as he tried to leave the room.

"Here, I walk you there."

He tried to push the guiding hand away but clipped a corner with his shoulder which earned him two guiding hands on the shoulders and it reminded him of how Spain would steer him around when he was young and wandering around early in the morning without his glasses.

Spain would usually order a servant to fetch them and practically hold Tex in place, hands firm on his arms nearly pinning them, or guide him somewhere where nothing was around them. He hated it when Tex broke stuff.

* * *

Alfred watched as Arthur and Alistair set the mattress onto his brother's bed. Rhys brought in fresh linens and made it up.

Mattie took out the disassembled pieces of their previous bed sets. Reilley made short work of transferring over their dressers' contents and was disappointed there wasn't anything more exciting in there. They usually only lived out of the top drawer. Though Al sometimes kept a favorite movie or comic in a second one and Tex usually had snake tongs and sometimes an NRA magazine or a Nascar one.

However, he kinda got the feeling that Reilley was after something else since he kept repeating that Tex was eighteen...like that meant something.

"The duvets don't really match the quality of the furniture," Arthur complained. "But we can look over some online catalogues, I'm sure, to get a better idea of what you two are aiming for here. That wall...though..."

"Kay."

Spain carried Tex in and set him on his bed.

"He crashed." Alfred blinked up, "Inside or outside? He must've been outside cuz I didn't hear it."

He got looks.

He tried to explain. "Well, you usually just gotta let him tire out. I mean, until he accepts he's sick...he just gets mad. And when he's real ornery and frustrated, he's real mean. I just wait for the 'Timber!' THUD! And then I can take care of him. In fact, I can take it from here."

He hopped off his bed and over and onto the other. He pulled his brother's boots off. Reached for the hat, but Spain beat him there and hung it on a peg under a familiar hat rack, Tex must've hung up earlier, that read in western block letters: _Home Is Where You Hang Your Hat._

"Inglaterra, I need two bowls of water, white onion, wash rags-"

Alfred frowned and interrupted, "I can do all that. He doesn't like being babied by anybody but me."

"No, Alfred." Antonio sat down on the bed. "I am the Papi. I take care of him."

Alfred stared unsurely. "But-but-b-"

It was always them taking care of each other. That's just how it was.

Antonio rested a hand on Alfred's head and then slid it down to cup his cheek. "Muchas gracias, Alfredo, for taking such good care of my Toni while I've been away. But I am here now."

"Come along, dearheart." Arthur picked him up and it felt...very...very strange to be on the other side of a room while Tex was sick.

He stared at his old man for a beat and then back over, "But…"

Unease rippled through his blood.

But what if he did it all wrong?

What if he let the pillow go flat?

What if Tex was ornery? He wasn't the easiest patient to deal with, even for Alfred.

What if-

Arthur kissed his forehead and Alfred looked up.

"Alfie…"

"..."

"You're _**my**_ baby. That's _**his**_. _He_ should get to do the 'babying,' don't you agree?"

And yeah...he could get why that sounded like it made sense...but...

It was weird.

It was like all of Al and Tex's years together didn't count for anything...in their old fogey eyes.

Like they knew better than them…

Which was...kinda...what had been ticking his brother off so much...

Well…

If Spain did fuck everything up…

And he hurt Texas' feelings...

Al would be there for his brother.

And if he had to cancel the whole May Day trip and banish everybody in the house...so be it.

* * *

 **Read & Review Please! : DDD**


	29. Chapter 29

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or FaceTime.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Cortez. 1812. Flashbacks. Fluff. Angst. Familial drama.

 **Special Warning:** Feels. Ya know for people who have those inside.

 **AN:** Lol. I have sooo much HW and yet...I had to get this chap written for you guys. Thank you for your reviews and continued interest. And now I get to start cramming for a huge exam this week. (On top of a million other assignments X_X) Fun Fun! Hope this is a good week for everybody! : DDD

 **Chapter 29: Oops-Baby-Origins**

* * *

Tex blinked against the blurry darkness of the room and then frowned.

"Al?" He groggily called. "Hey, Al? You 'wake?"

"Yeah?"

He rubbed an eye and massaged the bridge of his nose. "You 'kay without the lava labp on?"

Yuck, the congestion had set in.

"...yeah."

Tch. Yeah, right.

"You can put it on, I don't bind."

"Kay."

The washcloth on his neck was readjusted. And he sighed as Al rubbed his back. It reminded him of various military and science expeditions where he'd fallen under the weather and could depend on his brother nursing him back to health.

He sighed contentedly as a particularly tight band of muscles under his right shoulder blade was kneaded. "Oh yeah. Get the other side too, won't cha? Yeah, over. Lil' bore. Up. Yeah, yup. Ah, yes. Riiight there…."

He had a slight twinge that something was a little off because usually Al was super cautious and never did any deep tissue work because he was crazy paranoid about hurting him which left him seeking Hawaii's help for tough knots but...

There was something different in the technique but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Not bad per se but...different and yet...familiar?

It had to be this stupid fever causing him to think weird stuff.

The lava lamp was plugged in and he looked up as Al was illuminated before him. They smiled at each other or at least he was sure the fuzzy blob of Al was smiling at him and Tex was smiling until...he realized...there was no possible way that Al could be over there aaaand giving him a massage.

"Uh...Al?" He shuddered.

"No, dude you're good. No ghosts or Grym, man. I just couldn't get them to leave."

Antonio chuckled tiredly and sat up and leaned over him so his blobby form was visible, "No, Toni. No el coco coming to get you. Here, I give you medicine for your fever though."

He stared as a fuzzy Antonio reached over him to grab a bottle of the dreaded Robitussin and its little measuring cup of doom.

It was filled and set in his hands.

"Uno, dos, tres."

He stared down at it.

"Uno, dos, tres," Spain repeated.

"It's been awhile since I've had to force feed a captive," Alfred announced cheerfully.

Tex downed it. "Blech."

"Aww. I really did need the practice."

Antonio ignored that to reply, "I know, not a nice taste. Here's some water. Later, I make you good meals that make you feel better too."

He took a few deep gulps and then he was encouraged to lay back down. Antonio rested with him, though he was fully dressed. When he asked why he was there and in full garb, he was earnestly informed that it was Spain's way of being prepared to drive him to the hospital at any time.

Which was...good?

"He alright?" The Brit asked groggily.

"Mi pobrecito. He is still fevering."

There was a rustling and then a more alarmed, "Alfred?"

"I'm over here."

"Gave me a fright, dearheart. Insomnia?"

"Thirsty."

"Here, let's get you some tea-"

"Hate tea-"

"Juice then. I can't give you warm milk with that congestion, pet. Spain? Can I get anything for...you or Texas?"

Tex blinked. Not sure what to make of this.

There was...something...odd about all this.

"No, I will come. I should make me some garlic tea and get a lemon slice for Tejas' water. Tejas?"

"Uh...yeah?"

"You change into your pajamas now, yes? Be comfy."

"...kay"

He threw on a super oversized t-shirt that he'd gotten for participating in a run for St. Jude's Children's Hospital and kicked off his jeans.

Al scampered back to their room and climbed up beside him while he settled his glasses back on.

"You're warm," Al commented.

"You're an ice cube," he traded back.

Seriously, he was dead fish cold and Tex was burning up.

It made sense to cuddle.

Their parents disagreed.

"Nononono," Arthur scolded. "Alfred, you could relapse. Texas, more body heat will aggravate your temperature." Arthur tried to get a hold of Al.

"Hey! No! I don't wanna go-"

Tex tightened his hold on him. If he didn't wanna, he didn't hafta.

"O, if it's going to upset them, let Alfredo stay. I'm used to lots of niños sneaking into bed with me," Antonio shrugged as he settled on the top covers. "It is no bother. And I will not roll over and squish him. I remember sometimes they'd tell each other ghost stories and scare themselves and they'd aaaaallll pile in." He got a rather goofy smile. "So cute." He yawned. "They knew Papi could fight off anything for them."

"No, Alfred's recovering. I want him over with me."

"But Daaaaaaad. But-"

"Your butt is going over there, young man. I-good lord, Texas don't hold him so tightly. You'll hurt him. Crack a rib or som-"

"I want Al."

"You have Papi," Spain announced giving him a squeeze.

"No, trade. I want Al."

"You cannot trade me. He only wants to keep Gibraltar."

"We don't know geography!" Al whined as Arthur smuggled him away to the other bed. "That means nothing to us. Noth-"

"Mijo…?"

"Yesssss?" Tex faced him, put out that _this_ was his designated bedfellow.

"...you know where Papi is...on the map, yes?"

"...think so. But I'b gonna be real, I haven't really looked for you since the 1800s and baps have kinda changed since then and by bebory's kinda...eh. So don't play Pictionary with be and ask be to draw what you look like...cuz I...don't know where Portugal is s'posed to be in relation to you."

"...He's on the side that's better for sea exploration."

"...w-west side?"

"Good. I show you picture later today. You should recognize your uncle. He was glad about you being...alright, he wrote me so."

"Oh."

"He says he emailed you...while back. You get it?"

"..."

"It doesn't reflect well on Papi when you don't-"

"Tch. I'll check the spab folder-"

"We usually meet up for All Soul's Day, where he would console me about you. But since last year, the familia hasn't had to gather for-"

Tex wasn't in the mood for more guilt-tripping about his "death" so he fidgeted and turned on his side and complained, "I don't wanna hear about Tio right now. I'b sick. By back hurts. Papi-"

Spain immediately went back to the task of rubbing his back and shoulders.

It was immature and snotty and juvenile. But it worked.

At least until Spain got a little too comfortable thinking of him as a kid and decided it was a good time to tell the story of finding Tex, which had been something he'd enjoyed hearing when he was little, especially when he was sick or had twisted his ankle or something. Back before he realized it wasn't as happy a story as he'd thought.

Worse, Alfred had this irritating habit of being a too involved audience member.

"Then what I could never ever expect happens! That night! I hear a sound!" Antonio said, sounding so rehearsed and banal, Tex wanted to crawl under the bed and hide out of embarrassment. Especially, since Arthur looked so fiendishly amused.

"What sound?" Alfred asked eagerly.

"I listen. There it comes again. I say, ' _What is this? A baby crying?'_ And sure enough. There, beside my tent flap is a tiny baby boy. At first, my men think it is weird trick or sign by natives. But I know better. He is of the land. He is mine. My first son on North American mainland. My little baby cactus." Spain added in an aside as he pinched Tex's cheek: "Puerto Rico and Venezuela were so excited when they met you, Toni."

From what he understood some of his other siblings, like Colombia, were less enthused. And considering Mexico was newly conquered when they met and they were thrust under one roof (with him being a squalling infant)...it kinda explained some of their issues. She'd gone from sovereign Aztec Empire to childminder of her new, hated boss.

Stupid, romanticized story. Tex really wished Al didn't feel the need to ooh and ah at all the right cues...encouraging the Spaniard.

Tex stoically sipped at a glass of water that had a slice of lemon in it. "Soo sophisti-bi-cated."

"I'm glad you like," Spain murmured, breaking from the story. "I'll make a pitcher la-"

"This story's so stupid," Tex interrupted, just wanting him to shut up. "Can't you call it quits?"

"No, it's not," Spain argued.

Al sided with Spain, exclaiming, "It's the story of you, Bro! I love it! It's cooler than ours!"

That ruffled the ol' limey fusspot. "Oi! Our meeting was every bit as special and tender-"

"I sat on a hill and you cried because you didn't think I'd come with you. And in a moment of good philanthropy and bad foresight, I made a decision-"

"Alfred!" Arthur gasped, sounding a little hurt.

Alfred gave a toothy grin, "I chose the dude who'd love me best but food poison me the worst. It's almost poetical; heart versus stomach."

"O har har. So amusing," Arthur frowned but he seemed to lighten up as Alfred gave him an impish hug around the neck and a kiss to the cheek.

Considering Al wasn't usually that affectionate, Tex was surprised. And Arthur seemed to be aware of that as well because all his feathers were instantly smoothed and he took to tucking Alfred in beside him with great care.

"Okay, okay. Now, let's go back to story. My newborn baby, he is very _loud,_ " Spain always paused there to give Tex a look but then grinned "...but _**cute**_. And I am happy. I will let my rulers and our familia know, and we shall celebrate. But then! I think, ' _Oh no, there are no mothers in my camp. Babies get hungry. What can I do_?'"

"Leave hib to the gators," Tex grumbled.

Spain's face twitched with annoyance and he said rather firmly, " _NO_. Can't do that."

"Oh no, poor baby Tex!" Al gasped. "You gotta get him help!"

"Yes! So I ride out and I ride and I ride and I ride until I meet the Caddo indians and tell them about my little one's need and in a great show of friendship, they help my Tejas. And thaaaat is why I named him Tejas. For them and how they helped us, it means 'friendship.' And Antonio, for me, because I know he will grow up to be strong." Spain smiled and chuckled as he added, "He still has a little bit more growing to do in the shoulders. But I know he is strong and will get stronger."

Tex turned back over to face the ditzy narrator, just as he concluded, "Haaaaappy ending."

"I _**hate**_ this stupid story."

Spain's expression faltered. "W-what? No. This is good story. You used to love this story. You would beg me to tell it."

"Well yeah, when I was little before I realized…stuff."

His eyebrows drew together in concern. "Realized what?"

"That it's one big rant of whining decked out as a kiddie story."

"Qu-"

"Look, I _**know**_. I _**get it.**_ "

"I don't. What are you saying?" Spain demanded.

"I'm saying you're just goin' on about what a pain in the ass baby be was and how you didn't want be or know what to do with be."

Green eyes flashed. "I _**never**_ said-"

"You didn't expect be. I was a huge surprise. You stress that. Every. Single. Time."

"I couldn't expect you. There were no settlements. Canary Islands, Puerto Rico, Colombia, they all made sense. I was there a lot for months or more, me, my people, my influence. You...there were no fixed settlements. I walked around two days, _maybe_ , and poof! Time for you to come-"

"Just shut up about it already."

"I don't like your tone, Junior. I-"

"Well, I don't like having by oops-baby-origins shared with everybody who stops by-"

Spain's jaw worked several time before he managed, "You...you are not 'Oops.'"

"You just said I wasn't in your plan and that I-"

"You were in God's plan-"

"That's not the...I showed up. You didn't _**want**_ _...urgh...me..._ and you try to dress it up with some stupid half-assed kiddie story-"

"I have _never_ said that. **NEVER** ," Antonio gritted through his teeth. "And _**you**_ will never say that again! You want full story? Fine. You come and I am scared. We didn't have enough goats as it was. And you couldn't keep the milk down. You had to have mother's milk. You _had_ to. You cry for what you can't have and make me feel terrible. I am father, I am supposed to provide for you. But I just don't have what you need! Cortez leave me behind because I would not abandon my son. I ride hard for six days in every direction with you— knowing your time was ending. Knowing it's only because you are nation and you are mine that you have lasted so long. You want me to succeed. I see it in your eyes...you... depending on me. You already give me days of chances. And yet I cannot find what you need and I know if I _fail_ you…"

Spain shook his head. "When you stopped crying, I thought I would die. Our horse died instead. Rode too hard. Too hot. Have to keep going. You barely move anymore and I don't know what I will do if you leave me. Caddo tribe sees us. Surrounds us. And I beg. Begging looks the same in every culture. I never begged for anything in my life! But it wasn't my life, it was _**yours**_! I got down on my knees and a mother there took pity on us. And then I had to leave you there." His voice broke off and he got even more emotional, "Because it was too dangerous for me to take you with me to Tenochtitlan. And I spent the months in agony worrying about you. But they did not hurt you. And when I returned, I named you 'Tejas' for the great service they did us."

"..."

"See?! It is a good story! Beautiful!"

"..."

"It didn't have to be a happy ending. It almost wasn't. But we were very fortunate. Gracias a Dios." He kissed the cross of his own rosary.

Tex fidgeted. "...guess...it does sound...kinda kickass put like that. How cobe you never share that version?"

"You were a baby!" Antonio squawked. "That story would be very scary if Papi didn't seem like he had things under control!"

"...Oh."

"Now, I told you something, you tell me something."

Tex looked over, unsure.

"Who tried to ruin our beautiful story for you?"

"W-what? No, I just...had...revelations when I was thirteen."

Spain wore a flat expression. He moved closer to scrutinize.

Tex fidgeted.

Spain sighed, "Mijo...I know you don't wish to hear this. But I think you are more like your Papi than even you know."

"Theb's fightin' words. Nuh-uh-"

"We don't get certain ideas without people giving them to us. So. Who gave you this mean one?"

Texas shifted uncomfortably. He had ideas...sometimes...

"You can tell me. Or I can ask everyone. Or we can have big awkward family FaceTime where I scold _everyone_ for hurting your feelings. And this is why, maybe? Why you disappear and break my heart?"

Nope. No thanks. Didn't want that.

"Peru." Under the bus you go.

"Inca…" Spain sighed and then nodded in a 'I-should've-known' fashion, "Thank you for telling me...thirteen. Riiight before Peru and Mejico both started their fights for independence. They had much in common to lament over. Convenient. You wouldn't have believed Mejico but because it came from him...I'm sorry they used you, pequeñito. I wish you'd have come to me."

"..."

"Toni?"

Tex sighed. "It doesn't really change that I wasn't in the plan-"

"You...you're just silly." Spain shook his head and poked him. "Tonto."

Tex frowned and felt himself heat up. He hated it when Spain called him that.

Spain reached for a washcloth to set over Tex's forehead, muttering, "Who turns down a miracle because it wasn't in a plan?"

* * *

Alfred looked up from where he was chewing down oatmeal (eating to live rather than savoring every bite) and Tex tried to avoid his gaze.

The fact was Antonio was on the phone ordering highline ingredients to be delivered.

"Fancy groceries...and you call _my dad_ a snob," Alfred rose an eyebrow.

Alfred had been thwarted this morning—barred from the kitchen when he wanted to make them some corn porridge.

His brother had been given "tostada con aceite y tomate" or as Al dubbed it, fancy Spain Spanish toast for breakfast, and there was a pitcher of ice water that had lemon and lime slices. Whenever Tex asked for a drink, Spain was sure to twist some juice into it and then put an additional slice on the edge of the glass or in it.

The Spaniard also knew how to dress up plates with olive oil and garnish.

In short, everything looked menu photo worthy, though earlier, England sniffed that his Old World rival was the " _food poisoning capital of the world."_

Spain had gotten rather testy at that and countered," _Those are scams by the U.K. trying to injure my tourist industry! My hotels won't take such lies anymore!"_

England had shrugged _, "I promote bottled water if you visit, lads."_

Which was a good tip for Alfred and Tex...well...Tex would be fine. Where some people had a ten second rule...Tex could easily go two minutes...probably ten...but then he was already the sort where licking something did not protect a treat from him eating it.

Al had lost track of the times people had thought that would work. Tex would just shrug, " _I had too many brothers…that doesn't work on me,"_ and down the hatch it went.

He could drink from a puddle and be fine. He hadn't mentioned any kind of upset from his visit to Spain last December.

Alfred scraped another spoonful of oatmeal and wished Uncle Reilley had used more cinnamon.

He wasn't sure how to feel about last night's story time. The way Spain could turn on a dime and...get...well, "scary," was…

Was...why Tex had always labeled him "scary."

It kinda proved that...Spain hadn't changed...deep down. He'd...learned to put a lid on it but...it could still unscrew and pop off.

When they'd had a minute alone, earlier while their relatives went to work on their breakfasts, he'd straight up asked his brother how he was holding up.

" _He's gettin' there," the Texan grinned and brushed sweaty hair out of his face. "Breakin' point. Next station. Woowoo!"_

 _Alfred had stared. "Bro...you're not...upset?" Or worried about being swept up in it?_

" _Nah. Way I figure it, is this. I gotta make him see he's not cut out for this. Some people are Dad material, he's not. It's like cattle. He was a stud. He did his part. Bulls don't do the raising. They're too friggin' aggressive. If he totally loses his temper on me, ta da! I can throw his ass out no questions asked." He seemed almost giddy._

" _O-oh," Alfred's heart sank a little. "And...how are...you gonna do that?"_

" _Ohhh, I'm gonna be a Grade A pain in the ass, Al. That's how. He wants me to need him?" Tex rubbed his hands together. "I'll be needy. Heheheh."_

" _Evil bandito laugh," Alfred pointed out._

" _For the eeeevulz." And then he gave his eviler bandito laugh. "Mwahahaha!"_

Texas waited for his father to finish his call and then said, "Hey Papi? I was thinking for lunch. We could do something easy, say, like chicken noodle soup?"

"Great minds! Yes. That is what I am making you for lunch."

So now Alfred wasn't allowed to make him lunch either?

Tex nodded, "Yeah, I got cans o' that the other day when you guys were goin' at it Mortal Kombat style."

"..." Spain gave a strained smile.

For a minute, Alfred thought it was because his brother had brought up Walmart but it turned out—

"...I will make you good soup, Toni. Fresh. From scratch. That will make you better. The ingredients will be here in two hours, they tell me."

Tex blinked and got up to rifle through the pantry. "Fine, but Al and I want this for dinner." He set down a Chef Boyardee can onto the counter. "Can you make it for us?"

And now Tex didn't want him to make dinner?! What the hell?

Spain's smile remained on his face but the quality turned rather plastic. "I would be happy to make you boys dinner."

" _ **This**_ , Papi." He nudged the can closer to him.

Spain picked it up and continued smiling. "I would make you this...if this was food" and without looking he tossed it across the room where it landed in a bag of trash the Spaniard had been collecting to take out.

"Hey, we paid for that!" Alfred cried aghast, rushing over to rescue it.

"Aww man, Al's right. You're a food snob. I mean, by your definition, we've been eating non-food for the last few decades."

"Yes! This is why you get sick. But Papi's going to make everything better," Spain assured resting his hands on Tex's shoulders and rubbing them soothingly.

There was something about the know-it-all tone that put him on edge. Arthur and the rest of the U. K. sounded like that far too often.

And while he cared about his dad a ton and he didn't like seeing him hurt...last night he'd been surprised to see how badly his old man took a little teasing about their first meeting and he'd...surprised himself by being an absolute daddy's boy.

Really...kissing Arthur's cheek like he used to when he was a tiny colony...

The affection just slipped out…

Lots of little things like that kept escaping him...

Maybe Tex had been right before. He'd gone in too fast. Did they now expect him to be docile and easily managed?

Duh...especially when he kept acting like a needy little kid...

And if that wasn't enough to get Alfred unsettled, his dad decided it was a good day to be super nosey.

After tucking Tex into a chair with a light blanket and finding a footstool for him and a neck pillow and putting in a "favorite" movie that his brother would just sleep through and assuring him that everything was fine and it was just a cold and not an incurable disease (because Tex didn't get sick all that often and got crazy paranoid when he did and that's why Alfred asked Tony to make it impossible for his brother's devices to get access to WebMD's symptom checker), Alfred just wanted to play on his DS and forget everything for an hour...which was when his brother would need another dose of medicine.

He wanted to forget that Antonio was potentially dangerous, that Tex was determined to get the horns, that various family members were poking around all of their stuff, and that Arthur was obnoxiously bossy...

"I say, Alfred." Arthur knelt down beside Alfred's bean bag chair. "Did you...did you know Texas had been...been feeling that way?"

Alfred stiffened. "What way?"

"Last night...he'd said he was…er rather he felt he was.." Arthur frowned, looked around uncomfortably before sitting down on an Ottoman beside them. He swallowed twice before murmuring, as if it was a taboo thing to say, "...unwanted?"

"..." This was not Arthur's business.

He continued playing but the tense set of his jaw gave him away.

Green eyes widened. "Alfred!" he gasped in low tones of alarm so he didn't draw attention to them and set a hand on Alfred's wrist and the distraction caused Alfred's avatar's death. "How could you not inform Antonio? Or at least me so _**I**_ could tell him? No child should _**ever—**_ "

"..." What Tex felt or didn't...was not his business. Not Arthur's. Not Alfred's.

"That's the very sort of miscommunication that tears families apart. Of course Spain wanted him...of course he was...very open to that. Lucky verile tosser. Of course Texas was a welcome addition. Spain's Cath-"

"Well, he didn't _feel_ welcome."

Arthur was visibly upset by that but Alfred didn't owe him any barroom confessions…from his brother...or himself…

Because America knew damn well how it felt to be unwelcome and unwanted by a father he'd grown up ador-er-admiring. And how could he know for sure that it was just "miscommunication" and missed opportunities causing troubles for Spain and Texas? When he'd been living the consequences of his own estrangement from a parent who could barely stomach looking at him...who glared at him in open disdain and who talked down at him constantly?

When Texas had alternated between angry weeping and angrier swearing into the dingy chipped counter of a cantina certain that his father didn't even care if he succeeded or not in his quest for sovereignty...there were no soft words Al could give him. Because he didn't know the circumstances. He only knew his own. And his own were dire. It was easy to relate...to listen...to slip out a book to read when Tex slurred oaths and regrets in Spanish.

Oh how Tex hated those stupid dime novels Al loved, with their serendipitous plots and their loyal-to-the-end friends and family members. And Texas had rasped and raged at those books and snatched his from his grasp and hurled it across the room because there wasn't a soul in the world he could count on one hundred percent to save him in a scrape.

And Alfred knew how that felt...

Because he didn't have people like that either. And that made them wonderful to read about.

And after he'd said that, Tex propped himself back up and turned to look at him.

So Al smiled.

Because it felt like the thing to do as the bar blurred and the alcohol failed to burn that hurt away...when an identical glass to his own failed to confuse his companion enough to distract him from what he'd said. And he nearly fell off his stool when Tex pulled him into a hug and swore hard in his ear, " _Jesus Christ, Ally. Do anything. Do anything, but don't cry._ _ **Please**_ _, don't cry. Or I'll have to throttle 'em."_

And Tex wasted a whole dollar buying him new novels (because he couldn't fix the cover of the one he threw) and nearly sent the merchant into hysterics as he desperately flipped through to the endings...to only pick ones that were over-the-top happy...

Alfred turned his game off and walked off, lying that he needed a nap.

There was just a…

An unsettled swooping feeling in his stomach...making him anxious…

Like flood water rising…

First it was at his ankles...but now it was to his knees.

Like something bad was nearly upon him.

* * *

Rhys set an over-stacked crate of books on the ground. He was interested in sorting through them—seeing which were relevant, which had sentimental value, and which might be better suited in a museum or charity (with Alfred's and Tex's blessings, of course).

He planned to start now and finish after lunch and then he could see about the taxidermy. He already had a strong suspicion that Alfred didn't like the creatures, he kept turning them to walls so they wouldn't be staring at him. There could be Nature Centers and Universities that could make use of them in their curriculums.

He definitely didn't want them giving his nephew nightmares; Arthur had said Alfred had been doing quite well in that respect. Rhys didn't want him to relapse into night terrors.

It had been difficult in the early weeks of reclaiming him from Osha and hearing those screams and knowing there was very little he could do to alleviate them; their bonds were too weak then for him to do much.

Without any warmth of familiarity or affection (for he'd still thought they were coldly estranged), he feared his presence would've seemed as intrusive and imposing a force as Osha's. And he didn't want to worsen his condition by aggravating him through that unfortunate similarity.

Personally, it was part of the reason he'd been privately relieved to send Arthur to psychically soothe Alfred during the surgery. He hadn't been certain that he'd have been able to convince Alfred of anything.

And now knowing what he did of Alfred's damaged memories…

He'd have been a perfect stranger to the child in that mindscape.

He felt a burn of resentment at Alistair and Reilley...how they could have known Alfred had forgotten him and never passed that detail on?

Or his letters?

It tormented him now to think what Arthur and himself might've been able to do for the boy had they been in correspondence. Could've healed him up, realized something was amiss beyond the seeming madness the child suffered under…

A hex…

He'd been healing up under a terrible hex…

No wonder he'd recovered so haphazardly, his body was likely rejecting the foreign magic that was lacing itself into him.

So much blood...

His eye should not have taken so long to return, but it had been saturated with fearsome magic.

If he'd but known...

He also began to doubt some of the reports he'd been given.

Yes, their captive nephew had a savage tendency to bite whomever dared to feed him and he was dangerously strong and he hated the color red with a vengeance...all that was true but...

Was he ever truly aggressive?

He could be provoked into reaction but was he ever aggressive? Did Rhys ever fear for himself? Yes, his leg injury colored his feelings then. The brutality of it still shook him. But had he actually done a single thing to him then?

No.

He'd been watched with a wide unflinching feral eye from charred flesh. Alistair had the most resilience in the face of the injury. But then...he hadn't been assaulted. He also hadn't carried that child around and sang to him and made daisy chains or anything of that nature. Hadn't fed him bites of tarts with his fingers when he was so wee and liked pretending he was a baby bird; it was such a small fancy to indulge when the child was afraid of their foreign lands which were so cold and far away.

And he didn't think he could take being bit the way Alistair could.

Think Cymru...

Alfred was unsettling and feral then but was he actually maliciously aggressive?

Alistair didn't mind sharing his bedding with him and it wasn't like Rhys ever found him wandering their settlement...on the rare occasion he was outside he stayed near enough to trip the Scotsman...underfoot and—

Timid...

Rhys tensed with a sudden fury.

Good God, say they didn't falsify those reports! That Alfred did have some made violent fit and terrorized their camp and bolted off and none were brave enough to give chase—

And he knew it was a lie.

Alistair was brave enough.

He'd kept one mad bairn in his tent for weeks.

To suddenly grow fearful of him then…

Rhys grit his teeth angrily.

He'd been left. Each time the thought passed through it grew more terrible.

He'd been left. He'd been left. Taken somewhere deep into the woods. Away. And left.

"What you got there?" Alfred asked, hopping childishly from foot to foot on the terracotta tiles.

He tried to compose himself and raised a bushy eyebrow. "Books."

"Obviously," Alfred laughed, "Probably my dime novels, I loved those! I wanted to live 'em so bad you can't even know. I used to tell Tex-"

Rhys turned to better talk with him.

Alfred had seemed a little skittish that morning, hovering near his brother and trying to usurp the spot of caretaker for him…despite being unwell himself. It was good that he'd been sought out. Perhaps, they could discuss what was bothering him?

Part of him wondered if he remembered being their prisoner at all. But that was such an unhappy thing...he didn't have the heart to ask that.

Alfred coughed. It was a still a wet, concerning sound. He'd need to ask Arthur if he'd already administered some medicine.

"I was fond of ballads," Rhys offered and a smile tugged at his lips. "When I was your age I liked envisioning myself as the hero. An archer of unparalleled skill, hailed through the lands-"

"A gunslinger for me!" Alfred cut in, blue eyes brightening, "Yeah! In those, they'd-they'd have such great friends and brothers—Even when things got real bad, you knew they were on their way and there could still be a happy ending."

A young Cymru had hungered for the respect of those legendary figures...America longed for that elusive, happy ending.

He thought of those tombstones...he'd lived a lot of sad ones.

He set the crate down between them in case Alfred wanted to go through it now, together. It would be a good opportunity for bonding.

The child came beside him, letting his small body press against Rhys's leg.

Just then the grandfather clock chimed.

One book fell to the floor. He crouched and reached for it but hands dug desperately into the side of his shirt. He let the book drop again.

He knelt and steadied the child who began to shiver. "Chwb? Chwb, what's wrong?"

Alfred was transfixed in horror; esgob annwyl, another memory had descended on him.

Concerned that it could lead to what Arthur dubbed "field trips," and having chaperoned one with Arthur a few months earlier, Rhys determinedly set his hands over his shoulders.

He would not let him come to harm.

The memories were blended and chaotic.

 _A grandfather clock was chiming._

 _He dropped armfuls of books haphazardly into crates, some falling onto the floor, he was determined to save as much as he could from the library before those damned regulars—_

 _Smoke._

 _People rushing down the halls in panic, carrying what they could._

Old Man Lome and a being Rhys didn't recognize in a coyote pelt were trying to persuade Alfred to leave or to go—

 _"Go to your Father, throw yehself on his mercy. He might be able to shield you from most of it."_

 _Arthur...there...through a crack in the doorway dining with his men at the White House's expense._

 _Beg_ _ **his**_ _mercy?_

 _His plans were unravelling._

 _He'd had plans._

 _Such plans..._

 _When he had a plan it always seemed…_

 _1811..._

 _Alfred was cheerfully sitting on the desk and openly admiring the shining buttons on his military coat. He'd been promoted to Lieutenant. Lieutenant Kirkland. Didn't that sound fine? Respectable? Wouldn't Father be impressed? Yes, it was a far cry below Father's own title and rank. But it was certainly something and he was well-liked in his community, a member of a great many associations, a gentleman. Well, a country gentleman. He longed to be an equal someday...to stand in front of the powers of the world and be someone great...and as it seemed that there was no chance of him mastering the sea...army it was._

" _It's a big display. He likes big displays and what's bigger than a house, Samuel?"_

" _A castle?"_

 _Alfred frowned and forced a laugh, "Well, I can't afford a castle. But you'll see. He shall be in raptures over the pains I've taken to create such a fine estate. He shall-"_

" _And you think a present will make him forgive you for your falling out?"_

 _Alfred's face soured before clearing. "Of course not. There's nothing to forgive. Father adores me. But he'll like it. He likes grand gestures."_

 _His White House was burning._

 _August 1814..._

 _Flame and smoke and creaking boards and breaking glass…_

 _Chandeliers crashed._

 _The grandfather clock chimed._

 _June 1814..._

 _He was standing in the middle of Father's room...or what would've been Father's room. The smell of lacquer was strong. He thought of the half-sewn drapes downstairs and knew with a sudden terrible insight that...he'd never finish them._

 _There was no point._

 _He looked around the room again—his gaze sliding over the trimmings to the crystal chandelier to the flag by the window._

 _It was made of all his best things. The best his labor and his finances and his hopes could secure. And his best seemed cheap then. His best was nothing compared to villas and manors and castles an ocean away. And what an idiot he'd been to think otherwise._

 _Everything seemed small. Vulgar. Breakable. Arranged. Like he was standing in a crude dollhouse of his own design playing out an afternoon's whimsy._

 _He saw himself in the mirror by the bed—the one he'd bartered for and bought at a cheaper price but the thrill was gone._

 _The clothes he was wearing were the right fashion...but...cheap…_

 _Everything about him was…_

 _He stared down at leather shoes that were balding in places._

 _He was..._

 _Deluding himself._

 _The ships were burning in Essex and it was like the sea was on fire…_

 _Ash floated in the air..._

 _April 1814…_

 _That his favorite uncle could stand there so coldly demanding his surrender._

 _His surrender…_

 _And he'd heard all those terrible captive stories from the Revolution…_

 _But this was his uncle…surely his uncle wouldn't..._

 _No…_

 _NO, he wouldn't surrender._

 _How could he even think of?_

 _He couldn't surrender._

 _There were men depending on him!_

 _1813..._

 _"I'm doing all that I can..."_

 _"Are you? Are you truly?!" the human asked him, incredulously, viciously._

"What more can I...give…?"

 _Bertram gestured to a list of soldiers, newly dead.._

 _"These men have given all they had and more..."_

"I'm doing all that I can..." Alfred insisted. He couldn't help that he'd been delayed by a tribe desperate to adopt him.

 _He was slammed against the wall by the neck. "Are you? Are you truly?!"_

There was no give in the hand's harsh grip. It pressed hard against his adam's apple and made him gag.

 _His superior's eyes narrowed and the hand's hold tightened. "You'll never best him with a sword. Can't even best a man." The teenager doubled over from a brutal punch._

 _But he'd never needed to before this moment. Because he'd never really thought it could come to pass._

 _He slid down, gasping._

 _Father would never raise a sword against him. That was madness. It had taken his all just to point a rifle at him._

 _Loved him._

" _Surrender…" Hazel eyes watched him disapprovingly._

 _No..._

 _There were principles he had to adhere to for all the men who died for his freedom, for all the men dying to defend him still._

 _"America...surrender. You've lost this battle." The Welsh nation stated coldly. "You are too late. Don't be a fool. Give yourself over."_

 _Give yourself…_

 _No, how much was he supposed to give? Everyone was so determined to take from him. If they all had their way what would he have left to keep?_

 _No...this couldn't be real..._

 _America looked behind him to a harbor full of burning ships. The lurid glow, acrid smoke, and hissing steam made it seem more nightmare than reality._

 _He turned back to face Rhys._

Ash and cinder fluttered down between them.

 _And he was horribly outnumbered…_

 _Anxiety invaded him and his heart pounded as all the warnings he'd received that his family members were now enemy combatants rang true-_

 _His uncle drew a knife._

Rhys winced, They were approaching the moment that had damaged him before. He should let go, let go, let go. Like he did last time. Though even last time he'd been several seconds too late and suffered psychic backlash.

And feeling his nephew's hate for him...just…

Rhys...held on this time. It would be the only way to truly understand and maybe get to the bottom of that bloody hex.

 _It was a dark and crackling energy shot through with violence and desperation—_

Rhys shuddered as it swelled into a fury that went beyond the physical confrontation of Shipyard Burning in Essex.

 _How could they do this to him?!_

 _Push him to this?_

 _These were all supposed to be people who loved him._

 _Who treated him like this…_

 _Like he was the traitor when it was them._

 _It was_ _ **them**_ _._

 _How could they do this to him?!_

 _Supposed to be people who..._

 _The rage was brutal and explosive and..._

 _Not…_

Not directed at Rhys…though he suffered from the consequences of its violence and he saw himself through Alfred's eyes struggle against his strong, though unskilled, nephew.

 _And Alfred remembered his childhood. Memories of being doted on by this man. The one who stabbed him now._

 _You know why...a little voice at the edge of his conscience insisted._

 _And it made the rage worse as he thrashed against it._

 _At the height of it, he snapped Rhys's leg—the fabric of his trouser leg tearing in the process._

Rhys instinctively flinched in memory and the sound of his own shriek from centuries earlier.

 _Alfred made for the forest with the hunted desperation of an animal._

 _But he couldn't escape—_

 _You...know...why...the voice sang in his ears into every chamber of his mind and echoed._

 _He traveled miles and miles in that haze of hate until he was safe in his freshly constructed manor._

 _Supposed to be people who..._

 _Taking the knife from his chest and watching his blood drip from it in the music room because it seemed to confirm what they'd all been saying to him since the beginning._

 _What he never wanted to hear because he'd been so certain._

So very certain.

They cursed him for the fool he was. Warning him over and over.

 _Giving him that look…_

 _...even his Founding Fathers had given him that look._

 _He was...so...stupid._

 _Deluding himself…_

 _Like he could have what humans had so easily…_

 _Hubris..._

 _There were plans he had to complete._

 _Duties he needed to uphold._

 _He needed the Grand Witch's Gramarye and he needed it soon._

 _If being family wasn't enough…_

 _And there was no pity anywhere to be had…_

 _Osha would not help him. Mathieu hated him. Everyone hated…_

 _No..._

 _Not Father._

 _"Are yeh sure ya know what yer doin'?" The old man asked from the darkness. He almost sounded afraid, "What yer askin' me for?"_

Alfred knew exactly what he was asking. And he knew what he desperately needed: Courage. To follow through. To do what must be done. For his nation. For his people. For himself. And for them too. He'd pay the hideous price and finally be free. They all would.

"My soul enters a Winter from which I will not escape. This, I accept. For them all, I submit. For myself, I only ask…that my Heart forgets Spring. Make me forget."

 _Not all of the books landed in the crates and trunks and at this point...he no longer cared._

He no longer cared.

He no longer cared.

...no longer cared because…

 _It was a game of power._

 _...nobody loved him…_

 _...never had..._

 _No!_

 _He fought against it._

 _Father loved him._

 _Tricked him._

 _NO._

 _Father_ _ **loved**_ _him._

 _The others might not. That's why they rose to fight him so eagerly. Memories of them challenging him flashed by._

 _But Father…_

 _Father…never...fought him._

 _Father..._

 _Who never came to visit him or returned his letters…_

 _Who never had a kind word anymore…_

 _Who never smiled on seeing him in any room…anywhere..._

 _No!_

 _Adored him._

 _Right?_

 _Yes!_

 _Father would know what to do._

 _Father would show him mercy._

 _Loved him. Loved him. Loved him._ _ **Had**_ _to love him._

 _Doubt began lapping at his feet of clay._

 _It begat a horrible creeping dread; a realization he wished never to undertake or understand. One that made the future yawn forth like a terrible chasm._

 _One that made his soul tremble and his heart…_

 _His heart...which he'd always cast so much faith in…_

 _Depended on for its steadiness and reveled in its strength…_

 _Faltered…_

 _As it never had before._

 _Loved him…_

 _He believed that…_

 _He had to believe that or else…_

 _It was a revelation to drown in._

 _They're all laughing at you._

 _There...dining in your White House...and laughing...at...you…_

 _You know why._

 _You_ _ **believed**_ _them._

 _You believed_ _ **them**_ _._

 _ **You**_ _believed them._

 _The White House was burning..._

 _ **You**_ _let this happen._

* * *

Read & Review Please : DDD


	30. Chapter 30

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. "And a man's foes shall be they of his own household." Matthew 10:36 KJV Or _Dragonheart._ Or _The_ _Walking Dead._

 **Warning:** Profanity! Violence! Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Familial drama...and then more drama and then topped off with additional drama.

 **AN:** Whoohoo! Got this chap done! Thank you for your reviews! Here's to the start of this week! Enjoy!

 **Chapter 30** : **Spain Got The Raw Deal**

* * *

England paced back and forth and snapped, "Explain it again."

It would be the fourth time.

He didn't care.

"Explain. It. Again."

Rhys released a shuddering breath and looked down at Alfred, who was being cradled on the Welshman's lap. His blue eyes were staring listlessly at the ceiling.

It was hard to judge who looked more devastated.

"Rhys," he demanded.

But the man wasn't listening.

"...Yn fy nghalon am byth." He brushed pale slender fingers through Alfred's hair affectionately and looked down at him sorrowfully.

"I need to hear it again." Arthur didn't want to. Honest to God, he never wanted to hear such horror again. But if they were going to solve the mystery of that hex, the damage done to Alfred's memory, and whatever fell wish Alfred had made...he had to. He had to understand every puzzle piece Alfred tripped over.

And Rhys didn't want to save him an interrogation and simply show him.

When he'd asked, he'd been given a disconsolate look and a grave shake of 'No' while he muttered, " _You...don't want this, brawd bach."_

"I'll try to write it out later but lots of it was mixed up chronologically. Though...he had some grasp on what happened when. So that is a sign of recovery. He was aware of the differences between years during that War. Usually, it melds together completely from what we've experienced."

England hands clenched and he walked back over. He forced a gentler tone, "Alfred, darlingheart. Please talk to me. Or look at me. Or-or something! Please!"

Alfred continued staring up and breathing softly.

"Alfie-"

"...you all laughed at me…" the boy mumbled. Hurt and shame lanced through their bond.

"Wot? No, my sweetling. My heart." Arthur sat down beside them and pulled the child into his arms.

It was a lot like shifting a sack of potatoes. Alfred didn't help in the effort at all.

Rhys kept a hand on one shin and patted it consolingly, "The breathing issues are psychosomatic. Because he's there in the White House as it burns. Even when there were other memories, that was the returning spot. There, in the library where he died. The door of the dining hall. The corridor between. The library. Those were all important stops before he died. And there was a grandfather clock chiming the hour."

"...laughing at me…"

Arthur grimaced and shook his head. "How could I be laughing at you, pet? I-" he swallowed, "I didn't even know you were there. I...I didn't know…"

"You were laughing," he repeated. "Seated there in your shining regalia...you doubly outranked me then…"

"Wot?"

"...you were not in your navy uniform, _Admiral Kirkland..."_

It was said lightly almost with a singsong playful quality but with an inflection blended from tones Arthur remembered from the 1770s and the cruelty of Blue.

Blue...who always remembered...and never forgave...

Arthur suppressed a shiver at the darkness in that formal address. The hardness in those eyes. "Son-"

"No...you were in that damnable red of a field martial...when I _**saw**_ you…last..."

Arthur shook his head. "Alfie…"

"You know I _**hate**_ you in red...you wear it when you want to irritate me…"

His mouth went dry and he gave the child one soft but firm shake. "America-"

The boy stilled and then shuddered and the...the...possession? For what else could he call it? Passed.

Alfred sniffled and whined, "...you were...supposed to adore me..."

"I _**do**_ adore you." He kissed the pale stricken little face. "I adore you so. You were right. You were always right. Father _**loves**_ you."

"...You were...supposed to…"

"Father adores you," Arthur assured. He held him close. "Adores you so, yes, of course I do."

Alfred's shattered expression...gutted him.

"You were right," England insisted forcefully. "About me. About everything. About everything, sweet. Everything. You know me. You know me best. I know they told you terrible things and I know we had our troubles. But you knew me then. You knew me, sweetling. My heart of hearts has always been your garden. You're safe there." He held the child against that heart. "You're safe here."

"...you always speak...so eloquently…" there was a rebuke in the wrinkled lines on that small nose and the downward curve of that mouth.

And it's like arguing over a table strewn with incendiary criticisms from his colony's newspapers as the candles flicker.

Because Alfred was so close right now...mere inches...rather than a table apart...he realized that when his child spoke at him through clenched teeth...top lip curling back in a snarl...Arthur realized how much he looked like him…

And it was hard to tell whether that was nature or nurture at work…

Whatever it was…

However it came upon Alfred…

He knew from whence it stemmed.

He swallowed thickly and tried to push sincerity into every syllable. "I speak best when there's love in my heart."

It was supposed to be reassuring, but those eyes bulged like he'd profaned something sacred.

"I love you," Arthur breathed.

"As do I," Rhys added as he continued patting the child gently. "I love you, chwb."

"..." Alfred's gaze returned to contemplating the ceiling.

"Talk to me," the Briton pleaded. "Talk to me, _please_."

"...would you have really helped me?" he asked and there was something raw and wretched in the growl.

"God, yes! Is it even a question?"

It definitely would've caused a stir. Having Alfred abruptly there in that moment of triumph and excess…

He doesn't doubt he might've gloated a moment but…

If Alfred had looked even half as desperate as he looked now…

The wine would've turned to ash in his mouth.

He trembled to think of Alfred in that moment of despair...

If he'd come through the doors then…

Desperate and doomed and in dread.

Rushing over to his fatherland for protection from his folly...

God, if he'd done as Lome advised and begged...

It was one thing in moments of wounded vanity to fantasize about a teenaged America taking a knee and apologizing in the privacy of England's office for causing him such heartbreak and pain…and wanting their familial ties mended...

But that wasn't something for mortals to gawk and jeer at.

He thought of the One-Eyed Wench and how the pub's denizens were amused by their estrangement the previous year.

No. He held the child near and tucked the golden haired head under his chin.

No, nobody got to laugh at their pain.

He was holding too tightly. He knew that. And yet, the boy felt so boneless, it felt like Arthur's arms were the only things keeping him together.

And then Alfred's watch beeped and he jerked to life.

"Texas," he breathed, drawing back.

And there was an odd gleam in those eyes.

"He needs his dose of-"

"Darlingheart, Spain will-"

"I will...get it."

He wanted to keep that little hurting heart close to his. But Alfred succeeded in wriggling free because Arthur didn't want to risk injuring him.

England and Wales were quick on his heels as he fled the room for the kitchen. His bare feet made no sound against the wood or tiles and Arthur knew he was subconsciously drawing on either Native American tracking lessons or air magic to propel him forward.

He darted around the corner and they found him standing on the counter to reach the pantry. Had he flown? Or leapt up?

He teetered dangerously as he swung open the cabinetry doors.

He and his brother immediately set their hands on his legs to anchor him, to keep him steady and safe.

They startled when the child shrilly exclaimed, "TEEEEXAS!"

"WHAAAT?!" was the answering call.

"Medicine!"

"NO!"

"MEDICINE!"

"NOOOOO!"

"I will steal ALL your socks! ALL OF THEM! HAVE FUN WEARING YOUR BOOTS THEN! CHAFE AWAY!"

A grumbling Texas appeared and begrudgingly accepted a dose, not even acknowledging the weird formation they had made. Both U.K. representatives with a hand on America's legs, to make sure he didn't fall backward onto the hard tile or hit the granite island.

Alfred poured a spoonful for himself next.

Arthur made a face. "You really shouldn't use the same spoon, dea-"

"Hey," Tex blinked tiredly, "Ally...you okay?"

"Yeah," he chirped as he put the medicine away and closed the pantry door.

"You're a little...hmmm, I dunno."

"A little what?"

"Creepy," he answered candidly.

Alfred laughed breathlessly, with overbright eyes. "You're funny."

"Yeah, you're creepy alright. Your face is...kinda twitching. Did your favorite character bite it in the _Walking Dead_? S'okay. Grieve it out."

"No."

"Did Japan beat you again at online sudoku?"

"Heh, no. I mean, I haven't played him for a while. He's crazy good, so I gotta take breaks for my ego to recover. He says I'm getting better-"

"Did you have a bad flashback?"

Arthur blinked.

So…

Those first two were just to get Alfred to lower his guard...

Alfred's face did twitch. And his smile began to sag at one corner. He hastily tried to force it back up and his features twitched again and the lips rebelled with a tremble until he took a deep breath through his nose and his face stilled.

It was a plastically, cheerful expression.

"Eeeeeyup, kinda creepy," Tex diagnosed.

"I...I…" he swallowed. "I dunno, if I wanna talk about it yet…"

"You wanna eat something?"

"...no."

"You wanna play a video game?"

"No."

"You wanna watch a movie?"

America took a shaky breath, "...no."

"...Sounds like you wanna talk about it then."

Alfred reached his arms out for his brother who plucked him out of Arthur and Rhys's hold, spun on his heel and marched away..

Wales and England looked at one another uncertainly.

And Arthur's heart cracked as he overheard the soft, "...I just...I don't know where to go from here…"

Arthur lurched forward to follow them down the hall and their bedroom door shut in his face.

However, he did overhear Tex say as the door locked, "Catch me up on where ' _Here'_ is and we'll figure somethin' out. Cuz you ain't alone in this" before loud music was cranked up to make the rest of their conversation private

With a heavy heart, he trudged back to the living room and made a call to Mr. Gray. He'd alerted the staff several days prior on reuniting with Alfred, since they'd been concerned about the manner of Alfred's departure. Mr. Gray had been particularly alarmed that Alfred's illness had worsened and relieved when he'd texted that the boy's fever broke.

He...he knew how much the child meant to him…

It was largely why he dared to ask if the man was willing to do him a grand favor.

"Yes," he answered. "It's...it's a right mess and we've yet to have one repair officially scheduled..."

Arthur walked back and forth as he spoke, skirting crates.

Wales was sitting in a chair with his face in one hand...at least until Scotland passed by.

Arthur blinked at the uncharacteristic expression of wrath that crossed his eldest brother's face.

Alistair was his favorite.

What on Earth—

Rhys sprang to his feet, calling harshly to their Scottish sibling.

"Thank you," Arthur ended his call. He watched Reilley creep out from the woodwork, setting down a magazine to pursue them.

Arthur glanced helplessly down the hall to the room he was barred from. He sighed and followed his brothers in the opposite direction.

They were up to something.

* * *

Canada was seated on the edge of a brick planter, hidden by the overgrowth of the edge.

He was sketching to relieve stress. He and Al still weren't in a great place. His little brother, when he bothered to look his way, had sharp distrustful eyes.

It reminded him of the 1770s whenever he defended England's laws and actions...particularly the closing of Boston's ports, he'd get those narrowed eyes.

This time though...

He'd really earned the wariness.

Giving that stupid pacifier...that had been a dumb idea…

He ran a hand through his hair.

But enough time had passed...He wasn't sure if "Sorry" would cut it now.

He shook his head.

 _C'mon Mathieu, you can spew sorries for a million things that don't matter and can't manage one genuine one for Alfred?_ He thought. _You're supposed to be a brilliant tactician...come up with a plan to fix this already, eh?_

He sighed.

Earlier, since both his brothers were both ill, he'd decided to help out and do some yard work, discovering during the task that Tex's house had a multitude of mosaic designs to choose from; most were covered with films of dirt and dust which was why they hadn't stood out to Mathieu at first.

After Mathieu started washing them down with the hose, vivid almost garish colors were revealed.

Lots of star motifs.

Lone star state...

He sighed. He felt bad for Spain.

The man was trying hard to keep in good spirits but Texas…

Mathieu frowned.

Here the man's arm was still healing up but Tex had no problem ordering him around to arrange and rearrange furniture pieces.

Mon Dieu, it was cruel.

" _Here. No. Here. No, you were right the first time. Over there. Can you hold that? A little higher? Hmm. No. A little lower…"_

Not caring one bit when the Spaniard began to grimace or sweat or pant with effort.

And he wasn't choosing small furniture pieces and mirrors and things. But large, expensive things that could be damaged if Spain didn't put his all into holding them carefully.

Tex only abandoned his mean game when Canada began helping the Spanish nation.

Canada had received a tired 'Gracias' before Spain wearily returned to the kitchen to check on the soup.

Tex never even thanked his father...for anything.

Maybe...they would never have a rapport. Maybe...it was just as well since...they just didn't seem to have the same values…

Mathieu couldn't imagine treating any of his father figures so...harshly...

Angry voices approached and the Canadian shrunk back but peered through the branches of the hedge.

Rhys, who was usually the calm one, was LIVID.

It was strange because usually his Welsh former guardian...uncle? Was normally very careful that none of the U.K.'s wards or even former wards saw him lose his composure entirely.

Though, Rhys likely didn't realize he was there. He was kind of...tucked away. And Mathieu had realized some time ago that when Rhys was preoccupied with other matters, his magic could be...distracted.

The man didn't sense him there.

Scotland stumbled a bit from the hard shove the Welshman gave him.

"Liar!" Rhys declared.

Scotland straightened and while he frowned, he didn't refute the claim.

"You sodding liar," Rhys growled.

"..."

"He didn't break out of your camp!"

Alistair and Reilley shared a look before turning to him.

"So you knew too?!" he hissed at the Irishman.

Reilley sighed, "Rhys, it was…"

"Eire...Alba! Alba, you-" Rhys shoved Alistair again.

"O lay off him," Reilley barked. "He's not the one what led Alfie boy away. We started out together o' course but _**he**_ got cold feet halfway through the wood. 'Twas me that led him that final bit. So Alistair wouldn't be able to track him after."

Mathieu frowned. What were they talking about?

He heard the screen door open and shut once more.

Alistair stared at the wall. "He had a better chance out there. If Arthur had known about...who knows what he coulda done. I mean, he...he could have made him sign whatever he wanted. He wasn't in good shape. If he'd have been a prisoner like that...not in his right state of mind..."

"So you left him wandering?! You abandoned him to the wilderness?! When you knew he needed me?!" England shrieked, charging into the middle of the fray.

Mathieu flinched.

Alistair swore softly.

Mathieu began feeling very uncomfortable as a witness to what they thought was a private meeting? Battle? Clash?

"You knew…knew how much he needed me and you didn't even do _me,_ NO, _**Alfred**_ the decency of seeing him to somewhere safe!?"

"He should've healed up in a month or two-"

"Except he didn't!" Rhys hissed. "The eye didn't return until-"

Oh...so this was about 1812…

Mathieu leaned forward, ignoring the feel of leaves against his face and the sharp smell of greenery.

Alistair was noticeably flustered. "I came back and got everything straightened out for him. Problems that-"

"Problems that arose because of you!" Arthur snapped. "Detective Jenkins continues to update me and I've gone through that binder! Turned out of house and home! His things— _our_ things taken on account of them thinking him dead. I had provisions for him!"

Scotland looked away.

"What became of them, hmm? I've seen no evidence of those accounts being credited back—"

Scotland turned back, red with anger. "Fine! I couldn't get back everything. Those greedy misers gobbled it up. Repairs! Labor! You burnt down the White House. They thought it fitting your stores build it back up. Could I argue that? No! I had to let those go. I got the cabin back for Alfred. Better than him living on some godforsaken acre in...damn that was where Kirkland Hall was...shit, even they didn't know there was a house on it or they'd have taken that quicker than a wink…" He shook his head. "Look! I got him back on his feet!"

"I'd have gotten every dollar...every half-penny back!" Arthur hissed. "I still intend to. With interest! Robber barons already at work. My boy was even't cold when they stripped him of the protections I had in place. How could you not alert me? How could you squander an opportunity to set him into my care-"

"I wasn't clapping him in irons and tugging him forward on a tether for the British Empire to amuse himself with a pet lunatic!" Alistair growled bitterly.

There was a tense silence until Arthur exploded, "How...dare….you...HOW DARE YOU!?"

Rhys was similarly furious, "You talk so much about providing what he needed? You know what needed? He needed a bloody doctor. That's what he needed. And I daresay he _never_ got proper medical-"

"Yeh all heard him yourself. The cage. The menagerie. He knew what he could lose. If yeh'd have preyed on him then and he lost his sovereignty—Yeh'd have broke him-"

Both Wales and England moved threateningly near him.

Still, even as Scotland was ganged up on, Northern Ireland resolutely stuck it out with him. "We had reasons!"

"You knew FOR YEARS!" Rhys hissed.

"Why?" Arthur demanded. "You knew what happened to him. You knew he was...insecure. You knew his government wasn't treating him well I expect? So why? Why didn't you involve me? Damn you, man, you tell me why!"

"Because I didn't know if yeh were to be trusted! I wasn't even sure you really loved him until last year."

A dangerous silence followed that.

Because…

While the British Empire was cunning, cruel, ruthless...

While Arthur was possessive, manipulative, narcissistic, selfish, arrogant, and greedy. He loved Alfred. He'd always loved Alfred.

Again, Mathieu felt a twinge that he hadn't told him about America's Civil War.

The Scotsman, took Arthur's first punch stoically.

He even took the second punch.

But he dodged the third.

"You!" Arthur swung at him. "YOU!" And again. "YOOOU!"

Alistair caught his youngest brother's fists and held his ground...not fighting back but...not allowing himself to be attacked.

" _And a man's foes shall be they of his own household_." Arthur's head was bowed. "So. So...you were one of those voices whispering those nasty lies...telling him he couldn't come home to me…"

"No," Scotland replied levelly.

"But you certainly weren't trying to help us!" Rhys spat.

Mathieu peered around the hedge to see Scotland gray-eyed glare.

Rhys's eyes narrowed and his face was red with anger.

Alistair released a harsh breath, looked up at the sky, down at his feet and then back at Rhys. The fight had gone out of him.

"...what was I supposed to say?" Alistair muttered dully. "When he asked me things...what was I s'posed to say?"

"The fuck do you mean?! You tell him I love him!" Arthur breathed raggedly. "That's what you say. You say, ' _Alfred, your father_ _ **loves**_ _you more than_ -'"

"What if I'd been WRONG!?" Alistair roared back. "What if I looked him in the face and lied that to him. As if I was sure. That it was him and not the possessing of him what you were after, huh? If I tol' him that and he went to yeh then like-like-lookin' like he did...and he wasn't your bonnie blue eyed bairn with sunshine hair anymore? Your America the Beautiful...charbroiled...if he came to you looking and smelling like hell spat him out…would he have been your darlingheart then?!"

Mathieu shuddered...Texas had alluded to that several times...Alfred's...injuries following that war.

If Alfred had come to Arthur then...at his lowest, injured, ruined, wretched...and was rejected.

"You think I'd turn him away?" It was said in deceptively soft tones before Arthur left livid and entered spitting rage and tackled him.

He seemed ready to rip him apart.

Alistair tried to block the blows raining down on him. "Well, where was your arse, if yeh cared so damn much? It was me! It was Eire! Who went back and looked after him!"

"Where was my ignorant arse? Fighting Napoleon, wanker! Colonizing! Oblivious. Because I DID. NOT. KNOW! I didn't bloody know what had happened to him. You kept that to yourself, you berk! You prick! You di-"

"Every memory of me was fucking gone!" Rhys hissed, as he loomed over his brothers who were fighting at his feet. He delivered a hard kick to Alistair's leg. "And you didn't tell me! Til last year! And then! You were all ' _O, he has trouble remembering you, Rhys'_ "

"Ack, that was Eire that tol' yeh that. Not me! Not me, Gwal-"

"It was," Reilley conceded. "I might've been a wee bit...optimistic in my relayin' it—"

Rhys didn't pause. "-except it wasn't just a few memories here and there! It was me. ENTIRELY! GONE!"

Alistair flinched.

Reilley blinked. "Okay. Tha's valid. We ought to have told you that."

"-nking my nephew hated me! Thinking we were estranged! I spent centuries thinking that! That it was over. That I couldn't change that!"

Both redheads shrugged a bit uncomfortably.

"Sorry, dearthair."

"Sorry, brathair."

"No! Nononono. Sorry is not enough. I didn't feel comfortable setting foot here for two centuries! I'd come for Mathieu's hockey season and know I couldn't visit the other. That I'd be unwelcome. But no! No! Lo and behold I was worse than unwelcome. I was a soddin' stranger!"

Mathieu winced. That…

He doesn't know how he'd feel if Alfred genuinely forgot him. Sure, his brother teased him about not knowing who he was but…

If he ever really looked at him without any recognition in his eyes...

"Rhys-"

"Two centuries! I could've started over. Made a new relationship with him! If I'd have known-"

Reilley came over and shoved Rhys away before working to pull Arthur off Alistair. " 've got off your arse and come over. There were Gold Rushes, Silver Rushes, depressions, wars, diseases-"

"Gau i fyny, Eire!"

"No. Be angry at me too," Reilley barked.

"I _am._ Teeming," Rhys assured, boxing one ear. "But _he's_ older than you. He's supposed to be less of a pilloc-"

The screen door shut loudly and Alfred came out with suspiciously red eyes.

Mathieu gasped and leaned forward in concern.

Had he been crying? Had he been...listening too?

And Tex followed two steps behind arms crossed.

Alfred couldn't quite pin his usual, loud, confident flippancy when he complained, "I-is there a reason everybody's screaming? I mean, yeah, we don't have neighbors and we're rednecks. But this is a pretty h-high decibel even by our trailer trash dysfunctional family standards."

"Sorry Alfie-boy, we're just...reminiscing over here."

Alfred wiped at his nose.

Arthur abruptly abandoned Alistair, jerked himself out of Reilley's hold and crossed over to Alfred.

He handed him a handkerchief.

"T-t-thanks."

Arthur picked him up and took him inside, leaving them all staring after them.

Texas looked a little too smug as he strolled over.

"If y'all can't mind your manners," he purred. "I'm gonna have to have y'all leave."

There was something very mean in the way a gleeful smile kept tugging at his lips, revealing sharp teeth, that let Mathieu know...that quite suddenly Tex had Alfred's blessing to turn them out at will.

Texas had never invited them. He'd made it clear multiple times that they weren't his guests.

Mathieu shivered.

He'd endured because they were America's family and America wanted them there.

And now America didn't.

* * *

Now, Reilley wasn't a man above arguing trifles. A lifetime spent in his brothers' company meant he was used to fighting for every bit of ground and triumph he could get, exploiting loopholes, taking potshots...

But…

It was pretty rotten that Texas used the lot of them not being able to agree on a movie the previous night to be the catalyst reason for him forcing them all out.

India would say it was karmic that the lot of them were now sharing one cramped hotel room as they tried to figure out what the hell happened and what they were to do now.

To a certain extent, he understood why Tex had no trouble kicking their arses off his premises.

But…

Anyway he looked at it...

Spain got the raw deal.

 _Reilley barely caught his suitcase and it was only because Alistair reached out to steady him, he didn't fall on his arse from the impact. The fuck?_

 _Though the worst part was._

" _But-but-but Toni, mijo, I didn't DO anything. I was okay with anything!"_

" _Exactly. You didn't take our side, Papi."_

" _Fine! Fine! I take your side now!"_

" _Too late! Trespassin' all y'all." He pulled out a cell phone and dialed. "Well, howdy do, officer. I'd like to make a report-"_

They'd had to scram then.

Though having an inconsolable Spain did get them a discount on the room and his distressed phone call to Stuart got them moved to the penthouse suite.

Scotland saw a silver lining in that; he was currently using the room's ice for the injuries England had dealt him.

"Toni, please answer," Spain mumbled to his phone, recording yet another message that was likely deleted without ever being listened to. "Papi can't change what he's doing that upsets you, if you do not tell him what it is."

Reilley grimaced. It was material worthy for a ballad. Somehow he didn't think Spain would appreciate being the centerpiece of a tragedy.

There came a knock—expecting it to be room service with their breakfast, Canada opened the door.

"Aloha! Yeah, they jetted me over here for damage control."

They were all surprised to see Hawaii in a skirt suit and bun, looking more prim and professional than any other time they'd seen her.

Especially, since she was wielding a clipboard with grand authority. She tucked a strand of hair framing her face behind her ear with manicured fingers. "I know. I know. Tex threw you all out. I'm sorry. I know it's a pain in the ass. If it's a consolation, I've had it done. From what it sounds like, yours was pretty gentle. No one was physically carried off the premises." Her eye twitched. "But I know. And I totally understand how...unprofessional and-and...juvenile...and inconvenient...and unconventional...and on behalf of the government all airfares will be provided and there's-"

"I do not want anymore fruit baskets!" Spain snapped at the same time England growled, "Bloody hell if I'm going anywhere."

Hawaii gave him a reluctant smile. "Anybody who _does_ want to take up the offer? We have several different airlines and will happily provide hotel expenses. Anyone?"

She seemed a little impressed by the silence and leaned on the door frame. "Okay, gentlemen. So here's the deal. I'm letting you in on a secret. They do this."

"So we've gathered," Rhys grumbled.

"Easy Dragonheart, they don't know that Alaska and I _know_. Now, he's busy with pipeline issues so I've got a new plant this time," Hawaii continued, "See? This whole ' _I'm offended, be gone from my house'_ is a cheap trick that Alaska says they've been using since the 1860s. They pull this when they want to run off somewhere."

Arthur nodded and muttered gravely, "Adventure?"

"Yeah...whenever life gets...complicated...they go on...adventures…or sign up for missions."

"They are runners," Spain sighed.

"Yeah," Hawaii smiled wistfully. "If the situation was different and they were adults, we'd be fine with letting them run wild. But Al's still...adjusting to...big changes and Tex-"

"He is sick," Spain put forward.

Hawaii blinked, "Is he really? When I talked to him on the phone the other day...I wasn't sure if he was faking. He did that to me once when he didn't want to help me fight a traffic ticket."

"Not faking."

Hawaii nodded, "Okay, okay. You know what? That's good. That's actually really good."

"It is _**not**_ good. He is sick!"

"How ill?"

Spain shook his head. "He has a fever that won't break...and now he won't let me take care of him."

"That's fantastic!"

"It is terrible!" Spain squawked. "I am very worried about-"

"Nononono. I know him. He's gonna try and burn it out with whiskey. If he's drunk, he can't drive and if he can't drive...that pair is grounded until he's feeling better." She leaned out into the hall and called to someone out there, "We have more time than I thought! Hey, sweetie, over here." She turned back to the group. "It even makes it a credible cover story."

A young man who looked to be in his late teens or early twenties sporting five o'clock shadow, joined her in the doorway. She slung an arm around him, "Puerto Rico" she gave him a squeeze "is going to be our inside man and stall them."

"Hola, everyone…" he gave a wave. "I know I can do this. I'll just bring up statehood. That sets Tejas off every time. Mi hermanito will argue for hours and if I get him really mad and he's not able to do what he wants to do, he'll blurt out what it is that he's trying to do. Leave this to me, I will find out where they are headed-"

"Change of plans, baby. You don't need to rile him up too much. He's sick. You just have to check in on him. Say you heard and you were worried. And that's why you've stopped by. And while you're there...snoop. If they think everybody's gone, they'll start leaving stuff out."

"He is sick, you say?" The brunette blinked and ran a hand through his thick hair a little uneasily. "Is it tornado season?"

Hawaii gave him a flat expression. "Don't back out now, baby."

"Not backing out! I just know he gets mean. I swear he has Papi's temp-" He broke off on noticing Spain. He choked a bit and hastily said, "-er...But I...I am l-looking forward t-to seeing him since it has been s-s-s-sooo long uh...many years ago that I've gotten to-to er...see-"

"You knew," Spain frowned.

"..."

"Ricardo Fernández Carriedo!"

"¡Acho men¡" The young man flinched before blurting, "Nononono, Papi! Not the whole time. I was as surprised as you-"

Under the hard green eyed gaze, he faltered. "...just...y'know...in 1914…"

* * *

Read & Review Please : D


	31. Chapter 31

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or Dante's Inferno: "No sadness is greater than in misery to rehearse memories of joy. Donna Fargo's "The Happiest Girl In The Whole U.S.A."

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Because yeah, Ireland was sometimes a jerk (and that gets overlooked). Generalization that Puerto Rican food tends to not be as spicy as Mexican/Tex-Mex and that there's pick-pocketing dangers for tourists there. Saint Patrick's Battalion (And though this chap doesn't mention it, it was the largest mass execution in U.S. history because that was back when desertion and fighting for the other side *coughtreason* often equaled death penalty). First casualty of Mexican-American War: American Colonel Truman Cross because he never gets mentioned by textbooks. Alamo. Implied Las Castas System of Spanish Colonial rule. A hurting Alfred is a mean Alfred.

 **Special Warning:** American/Texan view of the Mexican-American War. Sooo there will be a strong biased slant. However, there will still be facts...uncomfortable facts, ones that those who sympathize with Mexico won't like (and who knows I may get to do Mexico's side at a later date about the "U.S. Invasion" and the Niños Héroes) but I'm throwing that out there right here, right now. And I'll also throw out that everybody, their grandma, all of Europe, expected the U.S. to lose that war. Badly. That part never gets shared nowadays. (People fixate on Now!America and it clouds their perception of Then!America's power level in relation to Then!Mexico's.)

 **AN:** Had to uninstall a Windows update that was foisted on me without my consent and crashed my laptop and swallowed my cursor. Currently rehabilitating the poor thing. In other news, I managed to write out the first draft of an essay for one class! Woo! Now I get to study for four possible essay prompts for another classes' midterm later today. D: Yay? Enjoy this chap!

 **Chapter 30** : **South-Of-My-Border Barbarians**

* * *

England's eyebrows twitched.

Yes, he and his people were renowned for their prowesses in matters of secret intelligence.

But this…

He drew the line at this.

He shook his head and gave Hawaii a disgusted scowl.

Hawaii put a hand on her hip. "Oh, so now we're going the high road route, hmm? Look, this is the same crap he used to infiltrate your intervention meeting last year." She showed off the box that had been labeled in a scrawl of permanent marker: _Tex's Spy Wear._

"I appreciate the pun," Reilley noted.

"If it _is_ a pun," Puerto Rico muttered as he winced—Spain had his ear in a tight, scolding hold of paternal authority. "My brother's spelling's never been the best."

Spain twisted the ear. "Nothing wrong with _**your**_ spelling mijo. Why did _**you**_ not write to Papi the minute you knew?"

"Ehhh, uhh, welll...there was the war with you and...kinda gave me up and then you know, things, and Tejas…and you were having problems at your own home and...then whoa World Wars...and...is that a new shirt? Looks nice."

"..."

"I refuse to partake in this," Arthur muttered as he pulled on his coat. "I'm going."

He'd had enough of hiding in shadows or waiting on sidelines...using others to perform kindnesses or interventions he could've done himself.

Scotland withheld the keys to their rental, eyeing him warily.

"Whatever," was England's curt response.

He left the room, took the elevator down, exited the building, and began the long walk to the boys' homestead, deciding against a cab since it was a fair day. He was hoping that a long walk would provide the proper opportunity for inspiration.

He needed to figure out the right thing to say.

To resolve this…

To win back Alfred's trust or...or something…

At least to prove that he wouldn't let the past overwhelm their present no matter how horrible it was...

" _...I don't know where to go from here…"_

Arthur ran a hand through his hair. _Well, little one, you could try confiding that in_ _ **me**_ _._

Not that he knew exactly either but…maybe even that might help cure Alfred's tendency to assume Arthur was a pushy know-it-all.

A warm breeze ruffled his clothes as he walked down the streets, heading out to the rural outskirts.

His mind kept sinking into the past...as it had the entirety of the previous night.

" _Good, Alfred," he encouraged as the child kicked his legs and Arthur held onto his hands, guiding him through the shallow water._

 _Alfred gagged a bit on the water when his movements were uneven and he started to panic._

" _It's alright," Arthur lifted the boy up out of the water and patted his back as he coughed._

 _They practiced a bit more and Arthur was pleased to watch him improve each time._

 _When the child tired, they laid in the grass, drying off in merry, yellow sunshine._

" _I did good?" Alfred asked, eyes wide with hope._

" _You were splendid."_

" _Spwendid is...good?" The child looked at him, unsure if the new word was a compliment or complaint._

" _Very, very good. Magnificent. Grand. Impressive."_

 _How he loved seeing those bonnie blues fill with joy._

" _Spwendid," he parroted back with a great smile._

 _And that was his new word for the day._

 _The walk home through the meadow to their cabin was spwendid with all the flowers in bloom._

 _Dinner was spwendid._

 _The story Arthur read that night was spwendid._

Several centuries later, Arthur's heart ached for that "spwendid" day.

" _You were supposed to adore me."_

Like he'd ever stopped.

* * *

Alfred slipped into a pair of jeans and boots and then buttoned up a small western style shirt. The house was very quiet even with the radio cranked up and Tex singing.

And it was empty even with all the clutter.

Tex got a kick out of his outfit. Al had ordered it a while back using an online vendor. He'd packed it for his previous trip knowing Tex would've liked seeing him take selfies of himself as a cowboy in merry ol' England.

Tex sometimes lamented that Al just didn't dress to match him much anymore.

"Lookin' handsome, cowboy!" Tex crowed, sounding a little less congested than he had the previous day.

Alfred smiled.

His brother was still a little pale and shaky and his eyes were overbright and the fever had lessened but not broke but…his brother looked so genuinely cheerful.

It was obvious he needed a break from….everything...everyone.

It was a day to be on their own. Traveling across states today was out of the question but he'd remembered when their plane touched down...how much his brother had wanted to enjoy a bro-day with just the two of them...so he'd give that to him now.

They'd do whatever he wanted. He got to be the boss.

"Whiskey bacon makes everything better," Tex twittered optimistically as he fried up some breakfast and gave a small bit of meat to Americat, who kept winding between his legs.

Alfred cut up red and green peppers for their western omelets.

Later, they went through a few crates, laughing over photos where they were both so serious. They set all the taxidermy into one guestroom. They played some records, found some old toys they could offer to museums for a sum (Alfred would price gauge them), and set aside some old birdcages they could send to a consignment shop since that was a popular decorating trend right now.

Tex freaked him out with an old dead scorpion in one box and Alfred got his revenge by putting on a record of yodeling.

Later, they packed a picnic and headed over to their ranch, several acres away, and roved through tall dry grasses swapping stories and jokes.

It took the horses a little while to realize Alfred was still Alfred and grooming and massaging them helped with that.

Horsemaster Tex was nuzzled by the lot, butting their noses and heads against him for affection.

Until America had met Texas, he'd considered himself an excellent horseman but...his brother was simply at a different level.

Tex rubbed and pet and spoke gently to the animals and it was obvious he was the favored rider out of the two of them.

Not that Alfred hadn't had faithful horses...ones who'd been more than beasts of burden or companions but all out friends.

Alas, his responsibilities had continued to balloon as the decades passed and bonding with their horses was no longer as great a priority when he had cars as an option of transportation.

Once, when he'd commented on being envious of Tex's natural affinity, Tex had looked surprised. " _What're you talkin' bout? The horses love you."_

And they did...just not as much.

 _Tex had looked a little privately smug when Alfred clarified that and then shrugged. "So I got one advantage over you, you gonna whine? You have goddamn birds and eagles that perch on your fingers and all the dogs and cats and goats you could want. Cows never give you trouble when milking and you've never been bit by a rabbit in your life. You won't grant me a horse or two to love me?"_

Alfred smiled from where he was sitting on the fence.

Tex grinned at Al and waved as he belted, " _It's a skippity do da day. I'm the haaaappiest gu-uy in the whooooole U.S.A.!"_

And with that Alfred realized that his brother had felt neglected.

When was the last time he and Tex had real bonding time?

He'd make up for it now.

They spent hours performing low level stunts for themselves and the ranch hands while Alfred relearned his horsemanship to accommodate his new size and they made plans to purchase new gear for him.

But it sure was fun throwing out lines they remembered from Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show and chortling over how cheesy they were.

And Tex showed off how he'd been teaching their, but really his, horses how to do line dancing.

And that Chomp was learning how to do the Cha Cha.

Seeing Tex's brown eyes light up as they hadn't for months gave him made him realize he'd been super self-absorbed not to notice his brother's unhappiness.

Well…

Once he got all healed up, Alfred would see whether he was interested in a little road trip on their way to the campgrounds. There'd be plenty of time to enjoy each other's company, open the portal, and then spend May Day with the U.K. clan...plus Canada.

* * *

Arthur was dirt stained and sweaty by the time he reached Texas's ranch house in the very late afternoon.

The weariness in his limbs made him nostalgic, reminding him of coming home to his dear little colony after a battle with France, or the natives, or the Spanish, or…well...pretty much everyone.

It intensified when he saw a clothesline with laundry flapping in the breeze.

At least until he saw Alfred battling with the top rung of a stepladder and a stubborn bedsheet.

He wobbled on seeing England and the Briton hastily sped over, jumping the wooden fence surrounding the home.

He ignored the twinge in his leg and stood opposite of the child.

The boy had recovered his balance and then looked at the basket at his feet and then at England.

"I-I like it when there's the smell of wind in the linen," he threw out a bit defensively.

No...defiantly...

Because it was a menial task...a peasant's task...a deliberate decision to not make use of his modern appliances…for a sentimentality...he somehow thought was alien to his ex-colonizer.

At the peak of England's glory, he'd shown off his multitudes of servants…

He'd shown off his fine velvet and silk ensembles...

He'd shown off his pressed trousers and polished shoes...

Because he no longer engaged in such low labor.

And his child...remembered that strongly now, since his episode…and it eclipsed all the chores he'd recently helped out with…

Bleached the memory of Arthur and their cabin and a clothesline and homespun cloth into something worn out and tired and...uncherished…

The British Empire reveled in finery.

And he had...did…

But that didn't mean he was divorced from domestic bliss.

He remembered being the one to hang Alfred's things...to darn his socks...to see to it the bed warmer was used during cold seasons...until he wasn't…

Not all the things on that line looked to be Alfred's. There were man-sized western styled shirts that could only be Tex's.

Alfred and Texas...they...took turns...didn't they?

Who was the parent, who was the child?

Who'd been taught this? Who knew how to do that? What they didn't know they either left out or hazarded tries at...

Combining their skills so they could run a household…to the best of their abilities anyway…

And he thought of two teenagers tromping through open prairies.

What was home supposed to look like? Mine was like this. Was yours like that? What parts did you love best? We'll stitch them together…make a bit of softness in a world that's hard.

Arthur breathed shallowly.

It made him sad.

Thinking that…

No...

Knowing that...

Alfred wiped his hands on his pants. "Dude...did you walk here?"

He nodded.

He had needed the journey to...think…

Not that any of it was constructive...

Alfred's face soured. "But Mr. Gray can't make a trip back like that! And Tex can't drive and it'd be treason to lend you Tex's truck. Whaddya expect me to do?!"

Mr. Gray was here? Already?

Good Lord, he hadn't expected the old boy to make it there in such record speed!

"...you to do?" He repeated, catching up to the last bit.

"How do you expect me, the-the hero, to-to fix all this? I need time to figure something out! Go away! I need more time! To...get over this...to know what to do. I need-I..."

"I don't," He replied simply. "I don't expect you to fix everything."

"You don't think I can!" he snapped. "You never do. Dammit! Why are you here?! We sent you away!"

"I just...I love you and I'm worried for you and I...I," he chuckled though his eyes stung. "I just...cannot stay away." England smiled weakly and shrugged.

And that was the truth.

Simple and inconvenient for the child as it might well have been.

Alfred frowned down at his linen. But it wasn't coming out of the basket easily and he'd have to come back down the ladder steps to untwist it.

Arthur shuffled forward and pulled the sheet to help.

Even with the aid of the stepladder the chore was hard for the little one.

Trust Alfred to likely choose the task because it was difficult, for nothing else than to prove he could do it.

England set the sheet over the line.

"So you came all this way just to do laundry?" the boy sneered.

Arthur forced a deep breath through his nose and said evenly, "If that's what I can do to help, then yes."

Alfred pulled the clothespins from the pocket on his oversized apron; he very hesitantly handed a few over.

"Gray says you called him to help us with the house." He frowned and fiddled with his sleeves. "Nobody asked you to-"

Green eyes narrowed. "They haven't scheduled repair appointments for you yet. I won't let them forget you-"

"W-well, they'll probably squeeze us in at the back since you've made it so we're not paying cust-"

"Unacceptable."

Alfred looked up sharply.

"You've been patient with them and their schedules and their whims...no, they get to wait on you a bit."

"..."

In the awkward silence, Arthur started to hum _Greensleeves._

"Why did you come back?" Alfred demanded again, interrupting.

"I already told you." He pulled another sheet and smiled when Alfred untwisted the bottom. "I love you and I can't be parted-"

"Is it that hard...to be away?"

He'd lain awake almost the entire night staring at the ceiling listening to Spain's misery and knowing it as well as his heartbeat.

"It's...impossible..."

"..."

Arthur swallowed, "...when I know you need me."

Alfred stilled. "I could have things laundered if I wanted! If it was _that_ hard!"

Arthur chuckled tiredly. "Are we back to bickering? It's safer there? In the heat of an argument? You've already showed me your hand time and again. I know you love me still…" he touched his hand to his chest. "Wretched rogue I am...you love me...I know it."

"Yeah...I never had much sense," Alfred grumbled and angry tears sprang to his eyes.

Arthur took that on the chin and nodded.

"It was humiliating!" the boy hissed, movements jerking as he reached for another garment. "I was never shy! I was never subtle with my words. Not about you! It was known how much I-I and everyone warned me. And I didn't listen and then-then AFTER! I had to see it in their faces! I felt it afresh every time I had to look at them. Or they on me! Humiliating! To love something-someone-who loved me not! I had to wait decades for the lot of them to die! So it could be forgotten!"

Arthur took a deep breath through his mouth and asserted calmly, "But you weren't wrong."

He received a dark laugh. "So that's what _right_ looked like?"

"No. It was a horrific misunderstanding. A catastrophe."

"You never looked too worse for wear for it all-"

"I didn't endanger myself with risky magic. You asked for something terrible, Alfred. And you paid. The magic made you pay. A-a high price. A-a horrible price. It made you pay in flesh and blood and shame and...God, what did you ask for?"

Alfred stared up at the sky, "I just...wanted to forget Spring."

"Alfie, what does that mean?"

He looked blankly at Arthur, "...I dunno…"

"Alfred-"

 _"No sadness is greater than in misery to rehearse memories of joy_ …" he mumbled.

"Alfred?"

"I just...I just knew...Winter was on me...and it'd be easier if I forgot Spring."

"Well, it was August when...so...it has to be a metaphorical winter. Alright then, we'll try to figure out how the seasons play into this. We'll list out possibilities-"

"No…no. You have to go…"

Arthur's heart contracted. He didn't move.

Alfred shook his head and repeated resolutely. "You have to go."

"Why?"

Steely blue eyes stared straight into his. "You were never supposed to return."

"What do you mean?"

"You're complicating things! You-you've made everything complicated. Can't you see how much simpler it is for us when it's just us?"

"...I've made mistakes. I own that. I've hurt you. I'm sorry. More than you can ever know. I want us to-"

"Why can't you just leave us be? We're happy!" a tremor entered the young voice.

And that blatant lie struck a chord in Arthur's temper. "Are you?! Are you happy? Because you're certainly not safe or healthy. You don't know how to make boundaries with your leaders and you don't recognize when you're being exploited! You don't know where to go or who to turn to in trouble. It's...just the two of you. And you're both young and foolhardy and..."

Alfred paled.

Arthur huffed. "Riding off into danger and darkness…worrying your fathers to death and distraction."

Alfred's voice was soft. "You weren't supposed to come back."

"Well, I came back! God, I'd have been here sooner if I'd known. And I'd have brought the Spaniard if I'd known Te-"

"Stop."

Arthur felt dread seep into every fiber of his being.

His palms were sweating.

There was doom hanging over them.

Alfred stared hard at the sky and then at him. He took in a hard, shivery breath. "I...I can't choose you."

"Wot?"

The child's nose began to run and Arthur fished for a handkerchief.

Alfred used his sleeve.

"No, pet, here."

Alfred chuckled wetly. "Oh yes, this is what I need." His fingers traced the K.

And Arthur remembered all those smudged letters. "Sweet-"

"No! I can't choose you. I can't. You're too late. You understand? I _can't_ ," he shut his eyes as if to block the sight of Arthur out. "You've come too late. He never let any of our government issues or leaders or anything come between us." Blue eyes snapped open and held his gaze again. "He...he's _**never**_ betrayed me…so you...you can't s-st...You...you can't...sta-"

All the air in the world seemed to vanish.

"Allie," a hard drawl cut in and Arthur wondered at how he hadn't noticed the sound of spurs drawing near. "He can stay if you want him to. I would _**never**_ make you choose."

And then Texas went back into the house.

Later, when father and son were less hysterical, England texted Spain, congratulating him on having a son who was a good man.

The response wasn't quite what he expected:

 _I know that, idiota. Catch up._

And then:

 _If you're over there, find a way to bring me in, already!_

* * *

Canada had serious reservations about Hawaii's plans.

He felt incredibly guilty watching through the spy cam as Puerto Rico approached their brother's porch.

"If they don't answer, baby," Hawaii stated through the mic of her headset. "I can walk you through several places where an emergency key will likely be."

" _The spare key's where the cacti are, huh?" Puerto Rico hazarded a guess._

"Ehhh," Hawaii grimaced, "Yeah, sweetie. But they could still answer the door."

After England had left, several hours passed as the group tried to decide what the plan of attack would be. What Puerto Rico should say led him to make the trip, how to broach the topic of opening them up to hosting visitors again, what they could do to make it less stressful? Because they weren't supposed to be "guests," they were family.

Hawaii had been optimistic as they continued swapping strategies over lunch, she was the bright cheery counterpoint to Spain's dark energy.

The man's previous sorrow had stopped up and been replaced with something hard and harsh. It made Canada more than a little nervous and he swore he was starting to see shades of what had made him England's rival and enemy empire.

Puerto Rico had become more gungho when Spain (who was understandably reeling from shock and disappointment and anger) darkly announced he needed a drink and left.

The spy mission commenced and Puerto Rico was suited up with Tex's old gear and sent out.

What no one had expected was for Spain to come back within the hour with several cases of soda and bags of chips.

Earlier, he had shrugged at their wide eyed looks. " _I needed a drink, the vending machine prices here are loco. I thought the rest of you would appreciate, yes?"_

"I don't know how I feel about the spying," Spain frowned as he pulled the tab of a Pepsi. He'd offered to the rest of them before helping himself...though he couldn't pronounce the second 'p' of the word very well.

Puerto Rico rang the doorbell.

" _Hello, sir," Mr. Gray greeted as he opened the door._

"Wow, when did-how did?" Reilley gaped.

" _Uh, hola, Señor. Is Tejas home?"_

" _Oh no, Gray. Tha's nobody," Tex asserted. "You just go on and close that there door."_

" _Hey!"_ _Puerto Rico snapped and gave his brother a rude gesture._

"Rico!" Spain scolded, despite being miles away and unable to do anything.

" _Al, hide your wallet!" Tex called._

"That's not nice, Tejas," Spain frowned then sighed as he noticed Canada looking at him. "When you are Papi someday, you will know this pain. All you want is your niños to get along with each other...and you."

" _¡Oye! Tejas!" Puerto Rico growled._

" _I seen you pick my pocket."_

" _That was one time!"_

"Ricardo!?" Spain was horrified.

" _Oh hey, Puerto Rico. This is...unexpected. Have you eaten?" Al asked._

He looked so tired, Mathieu felt concern. He wasn't relapsing, was he?

" _Don't feed the strays!"_ _Tex spat._

" _Tejas, I swear I am going to-"_

" _Have you eaten?"_ _Alfred repeated more shrilly to drown out Texas._

" _Uh, no."_

" _Well, that's too bad for you," Tex shrugged,_ " _We already had lunch."_

 _Puerto Rico sighed._

 _Alfred didn't quite frown but his smile wasn't right._ " _Texxxxx."_

 _Tex relented, "There's soup in the fridge."_

 _Ricardo shuddered._ "I d _on't want your reaper peppers, you spice-crazed sicko."_

" _Wimp...Papi made it."_

" _P-papi made you soup!?"_

" _Uh-huh."_

" _...what else has Papi done for you?"_

 _Texas shrugged, "Moved furniture in and around. Plus, chores and cooking and stuff. Why?"_

 _Ricardo's shock was evident in his voice and the way his arms flailed. "You gave Papi **chores**?! ¿Reino de España?"_

 _Tex clucked his tongue. "Yup."_

 _"Unbelievable."_

 _"Why? He ain't royalty here. He's gonna stay, his ass is gonna work. Your job's gonna be dusting, **hermano**."_

 _"What?"_

 _"Cuz Al don't like doin' it."_

 _"Oh yeah? And what are you doing?"_

 _"I gotta carry firewood in for tonight. Temp's s'posed to drop."_

 _Puerto Rico faltered. "Are you well enough for that? You look kinda...ew."_

Mathieu had to agree. It was obvious from the pale skin, red cheeks, and sweat that Texas was fevering pretty bad.

" _Why, thank you. My ego needed that. Look, I can't ask England, he's got a bum ankle. It looks like it's acting up. Gray's old. Al won't be able to see over a stack and you'll be a sissy about it and demand something outrageous in return for helping me out with something that makes you sweat."_

Mathieu straightened. So England hadn't "left," he'd gone back over. He was surprised by how relieved that made him feel, even though he knew all the stress had to be doing a number on his old caregiver.

 _Puerto Rico crossed his arms._ " _I cannot believe you kicked Papi out!?"_

" _Whellp, believe it. Cuz it happened and-How do you even know? OMG. He's already put it on Facebook. Papi? Why?!"_ He checked his phone. " _ **WHY!?**_ "

"I am allowed to post whatever I want," Spain growled and crossed his arms.

" _Yeah, he has. I cannot believe you, hermano."_

" _Stupid public setting. He's the reason old people shouldn't wade into technol-huh? Why? What's there not to believe?"_

" _Papi would not have put up with this from anyone else. Except maybe Romano. Maybe."_

" _What in tarnation are you on about?"_

" _Dios, it means you are a spoiled brat! Ugh, I thought you were bad before! Papi would've slapped me upside the head if I pulled half of that. Colombia will have a cow when he hears you had Spain working like a servant in your house-"_

" _Heeeeey, my house isn't_ _ **that**_ _bad-"_

" _It's a sty!"_ _He motioned to the junk around them._ " _I've seen the aftermath of one of your tornados look cleaner."_

" _That's his fault, he made us unload the whole unit!"_

" _Ugh, I don't even know why I am surprised. He_ _ **always**_ _babied you." Resentment filled his voice._ " _It's what drove Mejico crazy."_

" _No, he didn't...Meji-er-Mexico was always crazy. Don't trust me? Ask the tribes-"_

" _Everybody has to play nice with Tejas. Nonono, you cannot play harsh with him like that. He is delicate. He has spectacles. Nonono, if you cannot play nice—Here Tejas, another hobby horse_ _ **just for you**_ _so you can play by yourself all safe and sound on Papi's side of the room-"_

" _...You guys would've broken them! The hobby horses and the glasses. Do you know how many lectures I got about my glasses being fragile and expensive? I took good care of my stuff. I'd pretend I was a stable master-"_

" _We used to think it was just because you were the baby but then Chile and Bolivia came. And you_ _ **still**_ _got to climb up and sit in Papi's lap whenever you wanted. He'd hand the littler ones off so you could do it and-"_

" _-I was trying to get away from you crazies. You tried to hit me in the face with the bat for the pinata you south-of-my-border barbarians-"_

" _Cuchi-cuchi, pretty Tejas,"_ _Ricardo grumbled._

" _Hey!"_

" _Mejico was smart. Colombia was athletic. Venezuela was adventurous-"_

Mathieu winced as it felt terribly familiar. How often had Britain's territories sized themselves up against one another?

 _Puerto Rico looked down at a smattering of photos and...old magazine covers and ads._

Mathieu had known Alfred did some advertisements but it was something to learn that Texas—

" _-nd Tejas was the_ _ **pretty**_ _one." Puerto Rico flicked a vintage ad where Texas was modeling a hat—tipping it. Under it was a far more recent one where Tex was modeling transition prescription sunglasses._ " _You got away with everything because of that. You could pass for a Spaniard when you were pale. Don't think we didn't notice. Papi certainly did._ _ **Junior**_ _."_

" _Puh-lease, I was a buffer state and he treated me like I was the clumsiest oaf this side of the globe."_

" _He treated you like glass because of one stupid tumble-"_

 _Tex stilled,_ " _H-how do you…?"_

 _Ricardo shrugged,_ " _Papi talks when he's drunk."_

Mathieu shivered as Spain leaned forward, clearly looking like this was not something he wanted flung about.

 _Tex was visibly uncomfortable and his voice got small and uncertain,_ " _That's...that's none of your business-"_

Canada frowned in concern. His Southwestern brother had lost his jaunty arrogance and his brown eyes were wide.

Mathieu had gotten so used to seeing his expression permeated with an easy, everpresent confidence (regardless of whether he was happy, angry, or annoyed) that seeing him without it was weirder than seeing him without his hat.

" _You don't actually hold that against him?"_

"..."

" _You do?! Really?! Grow up, Tejas! It was an accident!"_

" _You don't get to yell in our house,_ " _Alfred growled from the doorway a bowl of soup in his hands._

" _When he's being stupid I do."_

 _The interruption allowed Tex to bounce back,_ ". _..Al! Tell him he won't ever be a state and make him leave."_

" _Why are you so against me-"_

" _We ain't redesigning the flag again just for you! It's done!"_

" _I am a citizen. We serve in the militar-"_

" _DONE! Because NO."_

 _Alfred rolled his eyes. "Tex...Rico...please, think of Mr. Gray."_

" _Sorry."_

" _I ain't sorry."_

" _Tex."_

 _The Texan shook his head._ " _Nope. He knew he was headed to Jerry Springer Land."_

 _The butler covered his laugh with a cough._

 _Arthur entered from the peripheral of the camera's view and pinched the bridge of his nose._ " _Boys, your father would not appreciate you being at one another's throats-"_

The rest of the U.K. leaned in.

"Blimey, he managed to get back in."

Mathieu grimaced. Arthur looked so worn out.

" _I'm not at his throat,"_ _Puerto Rico argued._

" _Yeah, and I got a conceal and carry permit. You know if this goes real bad-"_

" _That is sick. How could you immediately go_ _ **there**_ _...with_ _ **me**_ _?" Puerto Rico snapped._ " _I'm familia!"_

 _Alfred intervened with a cold. "Well, considering Mexico didn't have a problem lining him up before the firing squad at the Alamo. Yeah, kinda means anyone could be a potential enemy."_

 _Alfred gave Arthur a rather hard look and the man sighed._

Mathieu's eyebrows drew together. So then, something big had happened between them yesterday.

Rhys rested his head in his hand.

Meanwhile, Spain nodded like something had finally clicked into place for him.

 _Puerto Rico turned fully towards Texas._

 _Tex crossed his arms, "No."_

 _Puerto Rico opened his arms._

 _"I said, 'Nooo.'"_

 _Ricardo's hands beckoned._

 _"No!"_

 _Ricardo motioned once more._

 _"..."_

 _"..."_

 _"...Fine!"_

 _The cam view was blocked as Tex came in for comforting._

Spain's eyes softened a little, but he still wasn't smiling.

" _You see, Alfred?" Rico went on as he patted his brother's back._ " _These are the risks of adoption."_

Spain sighed and looked annoyed again.

 _From somewhere offscreen, Alfred squawked,_ " _Dude, that's not PC! Mexico is an exception, not a rule. I mean, I get along fine with Seychelles and Hong Kong's like a vase. As long as I don't knock him over, we're good. It's Mattie and me that are having a tiff and even then we're not at Cain and Abel levels."_

Mathieu winced.

" _Shhhh, hermanito. Big Brother Rico is here."_

 _Tex gently pulled away and crossed his arms. "It was really upsetting because she didn't just have them shot. They were piled up after and burned. Except me. That's as far as her mercy went. But she took me there...s_ _o I woke up right next...and the smell...and the first thing I saw..."_

 _"Ohhh," Puerto Rico clucked his sympathies and reached out to pat Tex's shoulder. "When you are better I will take you to the bar, we will gripe about the wrongs done to us."_

 _"Mmkay."_

 _"But we sacked her capital later. I learnt that trick from **my** family," America said harshly._

 _"You burnt York," Arthur replied flatly._

 _"No, ragtag men from my militias defied orders and burnt York. And you deliberately dispatched your professional army to burn my capital and humiliate us. You even faced criticism from your own home for it." America's eyes were narrow and sharp. "I read that."_

 _"..."_

 _"And you. Personally. Set it alight...I witnessed that."_

 _Arthur nodded and looked down._

 _Alfred peered down into the bowl he was carrying as if studying his reflection. "I learned a lot from your example so…" He looked up. "Thank you, Daddy."_

 _Arthur flinched._

 _Alfred went on, "And when we battled Mexico and she refused to let Tex go...I never banked on her blinking just because he was her faaamily."_

 _Puerto Rico looked a little uneasy. "Didn't you….kinda provoke-"_

" _Funny how it's called a provocation. You know how I remember it? Colonel Truman Cross. Lanced. Stripped naked. Robbed. Left baking in the sun!"_ _He stared hard at Arthur again. "I mean, yeah, she had a professional standing army and we didn't and all of Europe counted on us to have our asses handed to us. But their ranks were based on aristocracy and ours-"_

 _"Meritocracy for the win!" Tex interjected and grinned sharply._

 _"And they gave their troops cheap, crappy gunpowder…so the elites could pocket the rest of the money," Alfred got a hard look in his eyes. "And they kept sniping at our troops and using guerilla war tactics before and during the war. And then when she was in sight...she always aimed at Tex... and that just...did it for me. It just… did it."_

Mathieu shifted uncomfortably at the expression on Alfred's face.

P _uerto Rico nervously accept the bowl from the American nation and didn't comment on the spoon that had been bent._

 _"Ohhh, if you think this is bad, ya shoulda seen him when he got crazy eyes." Tex smiled fondly. "That Irish troop gave him crazy eyes like you wouldn't believe."_

 _"Deserters. Turncoats. Yeah, you can always count on the Irish to do something that'll piss you off." Alfred bared his teeth._

"Tha's fair," Alistair stated.

Reilley frowned and punched the Scotsman in the arm.

"Ack. Tha's fair. And yeh know it. Yeh sat on your arse and yeh twiddled yer thumbs while Rome invaded our lands. And sometimes yeh even raided Roman Britain and he never forgot it."

" _Hey Allie, you remember how General Quitman only had one shoe left on when we were negotiating their surrender?"_

 _Alfred's countenance finally lightened and he snickered, "Yeah. That's how we roll."_

 _"Yeah, valiant vagabond style."_

 _"You know she'll never forgive either of you. Ever," Ricardo murmured as he stirred the broth._

 _Tex waved a dismissive hand."Tch. She let Americans into my area cuz she wanted 'em to fight off the Comanches, it wasn't charity. It wasn't tolerance. She didn't want to incur the cost of sending troops my way. I was on the outskirts. 'Sides, I didn't wanna be under Spain's rule, why's it a surprise I didn't wanna be under Mexico's rule?"_

 _"Dude, he didn't wanna be under my jurisdiction. And he likes me. He just a chronic political backstabber-"_

 _"Yeah, I resemble that remark. But I think I'm almost better."_

Here, Alfred gave him a curiously sharp look that caught Mathieu off-guard.

" _I said_ _ **almost**_ _."_

 _Alfred looked away._

Between slurps of soup that made Spain irritated because that soup was for Texas because "Tejas is the sick one, Rico! When you are sick I make the soup for you!" _Puerto Rico asked what the rest of their day, which was swiftly being overtaken by night, looked like._

 _Tex looked thrilled to be asked._

" _We're goin' dancin'!"_ _Tex exclaimed while high-fiving Al._

 _Arthur was noticeably ruffled by this declaration and his mouth moved several times before uttering a soft disbelieving, "Wot?"_

 _"Allie and I are goin' line dancin'!" He cheered._

"With that fever? Ha. Delusional. Over my dead body," Antonio growled.

When Spain left the hotel room for the second time, no one dared to try and stop him.

Or complain when he opened the door without removing the lock chain and it snapped like a thread.

* * *

Read & Review Please : D


	32. Chapter 32

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or Brooks  & Dunn's _Boot Scootin' Boogie._ Or McDonald's. Or _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight._

 **Warning:** Some profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Flashbacks. Nightmare. Questionable bar. Leather does require upkeep. Potholes are a silent, lurking menace. Third-Wheelness. Sirs-not-appearing in this chap: Canada, Scotland, Northern Ireland, Wales. They'll be in the next one. For this chapter, be warned: There WILL be angst. In which Arthur cannot follow Rhys's advice...because he's Arthur. Spain needs to catch a break.

 **AN:** So I'm in a random Spring Break that doesn't connect to Easter D: And my professors assigned triple the usual homework...because there's evil among us. I'm just like, "Why hast thou done this to me?" To one reviewer: More like Pessi. And Pissa. There was even an old commercial I saw on Youtube poking fun at it. To castanedabanesa2014, I'd say they've had fatherly influences now and then but they both went kinda wild without Spain and England to throw the brakes on. And they learned to thrive in the eye of the storm. Thank you to FlowerFoxWings for Spanish translations. Thank you all for your awesome reviews and kudos! They keep me very motivated! : D I love hearing what you take away from the familial dysfunction.

 **AN/Philosophical Tangent:** Thank you, Liv, I try to stay objective while handling the characters. Like another guest pointed out, events seldom happen in a vacuum so I try to stay open to multiple views. I also like exploring the resilience/limitations of love and where it hits hard into obstacles. A lot of times in shows/books love and forgiveness and reconciliation are pretty much boring things that "good" characters do abruptly because "good" is dumb and shallow. I'm like...no story...linger there...cuz if it was easy, we'd all have it made. Also, when I noticed all the villains/morally gray characters of various works getting accolades for having more characterization, I thought, well there you are writers. Give heroes of all walks some character depth...and decent lines. I throw that gauntlet to all my fellow writers. The challenge: Give "Good" some depth.

I hope you all enjoy this chap!

 **Chapter 32: You Weren't There**

* * *

England only meant to sit down for a moment. Just to rest his ankle a bit and consider how best to thwart this night's outing without doing more harm than good.

His bond with Alfred was raw and strained, that much was obvious. Remembering more of 1812 was having a detrimental effect on how he viewed Arthur and yet…

It was neither new or unexpected.

Oddly enough, he was reminded once more of Red when—

 _Emotion lanced through him like high voltage._

 _Rage…_

 _Pain…_

 _Fear…_

 _Frustration..._

 _Betrayal…_

 _Humiliation…_

 _Disillusionment…_

 _ **Grief…**_

 _The feeling of loss was overwhelming in its intensity._

 _Pride…_

 _Resolve…_

 _Spite..._

 _Loneliness…_

 _Nostalgia…_

 _And then it spiraled back into grief...with a rising sense of anger and pain and fear..._

Which now seemed well-founded.

If anything, it was a very understandable...very _human_ reaction…to a disaster that affected him on all levels.

Before the hex and Blue tried to stamp it down...and implore America to exist mainly on his nation-half—

That sent a shudder through him…

The idea of trying to carve the humanity out of a personification…

How cold and efficient…

Working on instincts about economy and politics and war that were inhuman…

Was that what Alfred had wished for? An actual division between the two sides?

Was 1812 the reason?

Rhys had warned him against delving further into it. His brother had done his best to pass on the experience verbally. But Arthur had known he was getting a censored version.

Yes, Alfred had gotten disillusioned about...everything. England. All of them...their family.

Which stung, naturally, even though he'd been expecting it.

The fluctuations of biting anger, indifference, and contempt Alfred was exhibiting right now...Arthur could take. The "humiliation" involved with being loved against Alfred's better judgment...well...he could take that too.

If anything it just helped illuminate the aspect of Blue all the better...who was a defensive presence who...never forgot...or forgave those who caused injury. Though it pained England to be set anywhere near that damnable woman...Sarah…or Osha or any of the other abusers Alfred had endured.

What concerned England most was the grief he sensed.

A grief that the child was trying so hard to suppress.

Sometimes he'd look Arthur's way and under the anger there was something so fragile.

" _You were supposed to adore me…"_

 _"I just thought you didn't love me anymore."_

England wasn't sure when he closed his eyes but he found himself staring sullenly at the train of Elizabeth's gown as she and her advisers swept down the halls.

 _She'd kept them apart._

 _She'd known. She'd known full well how much he'd longed for a child._

 _She knew...how much their colony needed his father…_

 _And she'd kept them apart._

 _He wasn't sure if he could ever forgive her for it._

 _She'd kept them apart._

 _They'd lost so much because of it…_

 _So many tender moments they could have had._

 _So many ill events he could've circumvented…_

 _He fantasized without restraint: about discovering the little one, stabilizing the colony, exterminating the Wendigo threat and removing all of their enemies, and taking his baby home._

 _Home to where every castle garden would be a playpen for the infant's magic. And they'd rest among sprawling daffodils and roses. Arthur would sit against a tree, thinking leisurely how best to foil the latest court conspiracy while his sweetling teethed on a fine coral dummy...its silver bells twinkling with every movement._

 _Maybe then…_

 _If they could have had that…_

 _Maybe then...they wouldn't have..._

" _I will choose liberty after all. I'm no longer your child, nor your baby brother. From now on, I'm independent…"_

 _Arthur's breathing turned shallow._

 _The garden was gone. His arms were weighed down with a bayonet instead of a baby._

 _No...No… he hated this nightmare...this damned nightmare._

 _No. It wasn't real._

 _Even though he swore he tasted gunpowder in the air and felt stinging rain on his skin._

 _And he was helpless to change the cycle._

 _Lightning flashed and lit up the uniform England hated...A uniform gifted to America by France no less! That the boy would gladly make alliances with his enemies?! Compounding betrayal upon betrayal!?_

" _I won't allow it!" he hissed as he charged, moving with more speed, striking with more force._

 _No. Stop._

 _Because this time he wanted to make the landing blow rattle America's arms. To test the boy's mettle._

 _Stop. Stop. Stop._

 _Force the youth to acknowledge that if the Empire wanted to, he was powerful enough that he could send for more troops and end this rebellion (the cost and the unpopularity of the war effort be damned)._

 _God NO! You fool! You imbecile! You arrogant, pigheaded—_

 _America raised his gun to block the strike...a fraction too late..._

England awoke with a strangled cry.

Alfred, who was in the middle of tucking a Western print quilt around Arthur, stared. "D-dad?"

Arthur pulled the child into his shaky arms.

Safe.

Just a nightmare.

He pet the dry, clean, wheat colored hair that smelled of meadows and flora.

Safe. Safe. Safe.

He'd have never forgiven himself if—

He choked back his horror.

"Um, a-are you...okay?" was mumbled into his chest.

Breathe, Arthur ol' boy, breathe. He buried his face into the child's soft hair and nodded because he didn't trust himself to speak.

Damned nightmare always left him so…

His arms tightened.

Alfred indulged him quietly for a few moments and then haltingly forced out in a bland slightly resentful tone. "You...you...rescued me. I'm...out of Osha's clutches. It's gonna be alright."

Arthur pulled back. That was not the nightmare he'd been suffering from but he was surprised that Alfred had caught on to that particular one.

The boy cleared his throat and tried to resume a confident air. "S-so, I've left you instructions on how to microwave the pizza bread I made you in the fridge. Do not delineate. I repeat do NOT delineate from the time I specified. Now, Gray has full command of the kitchen cuz I trust him and if he feels like cooking for you, he can. But I also told him that here in America he can refuse. I've written down the password so you can connect your phone to our wifi and I've left my laptop out so you can watch your boring news, but if you try to go through my history, I will know. I. Will. Know. And you will pay-"

"I'm coming with you," he cut in hoarsely.

The only thing worse than not being able to stop the harebrained scheme, was being left behind.

What if they gave Puerto Rico the slip and disappeared? That sent a dizzying thrill of terror through him that would've seemed horribly out of proportion to the situation except…

He was so afraid of falling into another estrangement. And what if something, someone, like Osha? like Grym? Like cruel superiors? Preyed on his child? Without Arthur there to protect him?

His embrace tightened and he kissed the child's temple like a dying man to his dearest attendants as he felt the shadow of the end looming over him—desperate for that love to find purchase, like ivy, and stay. Stay. Stay. Stay. And spread and never be pulled loose.

Alfred's nose wrinkled. "Dude? I'm gonna be brutal. You're...kinda...not at your...your freshest. Even for a European." Alfred gave him a glance up and down. "I mean, your bad dream...kinda made you sweat and...you're kinda," He ran an impudent hand over Arthur's jawline, "needing a shave. And your eyes are...bloodshot and you've got major bags under them. Take five, man."

Alfred maneuvered himself out of Arthur's hold over the side of the armchair and dropped down.

Arthur forced himself to stand.

"And your ankle's bothering you again," Alfred observed, face conflicted.

It was clear he wanted to keep up a charade of distance and agitation to maintain and express his anger and hurt over 1812.

And Arthur knew full well whom he'd learnt such behavior from and was aping and yet…

Much like when he'd shown off his dramatic reading as Claudius...

There was a certain lack of skill and delivery because there was a potent earnestness in Alfred's being that always shone through.

The hero just couldn't play the villain convincingly.

He cared too much.

His blue eyes stayed on Arthur's ankle even while the rest of him tried to school itself into a posture of indifference.

Arthur cupped the child's cheek. "It's no matter, Sweet. Old Crusades wound. Nothing to worry over."

"'Cept that's the same one that broke at Christmas, right?" he pointed out shrewdly.

"Allie, c'mon!" Tex called.

The younger boy startled and took a step back, away from Arthur.

Tex adjusted his hat. "Al, we gotta skedaddle if we're gon—oh. Hey Arthur, guns are everywhere. Grab whatever you need for if you get burglarized or there's coyotes or whatever. Same goes for you, Gray! Good luck!"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," the elderly man replied while he sat at the kitchen table, consulting a calendar and circling dates.

Arthur followed them out.

No. No, he needed to find some way to ensure inclusion. He didn't let the truck's passenger door close.

Tex blinked over at him from the driver's seat, "Uh, there ain't enough room, cowpoke. Sorry!"

America crawled over Puerto Rico to the middle seat of the truck bench which, to England's horror, was not fitted with a booster seat and Puerto Rico closed the door in his face and the three zoomed away.

What if they were in a crash? What if they went somewhere dangerous? What if Alfred, who wasn't completely better, relapsed? Should Texas even be driving with that fever?

The vehicle was just out of sight when he heard another vehicle approach.

He turned.

Spain rolled down his driver's side window and unlocked the doors with a button.

"Get in, pirata."

* * *

Alfred was too proud to dial his dad even though he was totally the third wheel of this adventure.

He wasn't jealous per se of Puerto Rico's ability to shoot pool and drink and elbow Tex in the ribs during a joke...he was just...aware.

Very aware that he couldn't really participate in a lot of the old standby bro-activities he used to enjoy with Tex. And every hour that passed really drove it home.

Cuz he wasn't...big anymore and there were certain changes to their dynamic now.

Way under age and unable to drink and only allowed admittance because Tex had slipped several bills to cover him, his night was shaping up to be a total wash. There just wasn't much for him to do. Maybe he should've just let them go out with the promise that they'd catch an Uber lift home.

Technically, he had a baseball bat stashed behind the seats in the truck and he could use it to reach the pedals to drive them all home later, but a cab would be the more legit way to end the night.

His feet ached but he resolutely went out on the dance floor as the jukebox played _Boot Scootin' Boogie_ even though it was getting late and the denizens of the bar (clientele and workers) were getting progressively shadier as the hours passed.

He danced in tribute to the neon lights and the letters that were missing on one sign: S, T, A...and made it read LONE...R instead of LONESTAR...and tried not to think of how poetically fitting it was.

He was pretty sure he had blisters at the least. But it was impossible to complain when Texas, who was getting steadily redder from exertion, fever, and alcohol, looked positively ecstatic to be there.

He wanted to be a part of that. And sometimes when Tex looked over and noticed him doing the electric slide, he would come out and join him.

His heels stung.

It was his own fault, really. He'd seen and swiped a pair of Molossia's super old kiddie cowboy boots from one of the boxes, rather than just wearing his sneakers.

Without working to soften them up with repeated soakings and dryings and the use of vaseline, they were so friggin hard.

They didn't flex and they pinched and chafed his feet something awful.

Ugh, he'd dropped the ball by not getting himself a pair of cowboy boots. And this was the price he paid.

He spun and clapped and went heel toe, heel toe.

C'mon little mermaid, dance! Dance for—

Blue eyes stared as the door opened and its bell rang and then it shut and...

No...way…

Even in the dimness of the bar, he'd know those eyebrows anywhere.

And they knew him...like a compass needle, Arthur made a beeline straight for him.

And Alfred half-considered ducking under a pool table.

He'd rigged all their cellphones so they couldn't be traced.

The truck didn't have nav so that couldn't be tracked either.

He'd been careful not to let any of their trio tweet, update, or post anything to any social cyber platform.

Arthur came to a stop just in front of him and it was the moment where Alfred was supposed to laugh and say something catchy.

Instead, he rather lamely allowed himself to be escorted off the dancefloor over to the sidelines.

"You're limping," Arthur observed.

"You're in good company."

Arthur gave him a sharp look.

They both sat down on old 90's wooden chairs that were heavy and sturdy and square.

Alfred tapped his fingers against the peeling varnish of the table.

He was hungry and tired and achy.

Tex and Rico mostly just ordered chips and guacamole while they'd been there. And while they shared with him, he wasn't getting the calorie kick from alcohol that they were. Yeah, they'd also split between them some fries and buffalo wings but it just wasn't cutting it.

And he'd forgotten his wallet at home. Otherwise, he'd have dropped by a Mom-and-Pop shop and grabbed something.

"I've been calling you," Arthur stated, eerily calm. His hands were resting on the table, fingers laced. It was a bad sign.

"..."

"You didn't answer my calls or texts."

"I turned off my phone...we were coming back. You just had to wait. You didn't have to come out here, bounty hunter style."

"Oh, but we did."

That sent alarm bells through his head. " _ **We**_?"

Arthur nodded over at who'd accompanied him.

"Crap."

How the freak they managed to get over their skirmish in Walmart and become allies so fast, he'd never know.

But there Spain was...stalking predatorily over to where his sons were standing and clinking beer bottles and flirting with the lady bartender. And he had no qualms about walking through various dance formations and couples to get to them.

Puerto Rico must've had a better internal radar for survival because he noticeably experienced a shiver down his spine and turned.

His jaw dropped and he reached an arm out to tug at Texas and get him to turn around too.

Tex, who'd never been a super quiet person as long as he'd known him (unless he was sulking) was even louder when he was drunk.

"¡MUY BUENOS! ¿¡Qué pasa?!"

Spain grabbed them both by the upper arms and began dragging them out.

Alfred ignored his stinging feet and his rumbling belly and raced after them. "Dude! You can't just barge in here and-"

"Allie!" Tex exclaimed happily. "I got throwed, thrown, up er...out! I didn't know he was a part-time bouncer, did you?" He turned to Puerto Rico and in a loud whisper went: "I didn't even see her signal him. I thought she liked us. Aw well," he took another swig of his drink.

Alfred's eyebrows twitched because that was not what had just happened right now. "Eyeeah, bro, think we're headin' home."

"No way, one more round! One. More. Round. One. More-"

"No more rounds," Spain snapped.

Tejas tried to pull away and Spain tugged him back.

His brother seemed to think that was a good time to get in the older man's face. "You are NOT the boss of me...anymore! Is he Al?"

Alfred's eyebrow twitched again and looked away. "This is just...not gonna go well."

"Is he Al?"

"Nope!" He called back loyally. If they were going down, they were going down together.

"HA!" Texas laughed triumphantly.

Yeah, still up in Spain's face. A muscle ticked in Spain's jaw and all the good cheer that was usually in abundance there...was long gone.

Rico gasped dramatically. "You...are sooooo dead, hermanito. Hic. Guess Día de Muertos is back on. Hic. Cuz he's gonna kiiiiiii-hic-iill you!"

Spain gave his older son a look that said SHUT UP. Which he did somewhat. Though it seemed to make his hiccups louder.

Spain tried to take a calming breath and began with, "Toni-"

"Nope!"

"Antonio F-"

"DENIED! Cashier collect that hot card!" He sniggered at his own joke.

"You are not 21," Spain growled, releasing Puerto Rico to snatch the beer bottle out of Tex's grasp.

"Uh...hey?"

"How are you drinking when you are not 21?"

"...I paid for that," he whined, making 'gimme' fingers at it.

Spain didn't grace that with a response and rather coldly tossed it into a trashcan where it shattered.

"There was a quarter left!"

"You are not overseas on a base. Or in a host country where the age is lower. Rico knows he'd be in big trouble because you are NOT at his place and if he did buy you a drink here-"

"I, hic, didn't, Papi!"

"I grew a beard!" Tex grinned and showed off his wallet ID's photo "And I haven't shaved since waaaaay early this morning." He rubbed his stubble proudly. "Makes me look older."

Spain faked an "Ohhh" of being impressed before giving a short "Gracias" and pocketing Tex's wallet and his fake ID.

Tex stared at his empty hand. "I have been pickpocketed-ed-ed. Aaaaal. Call the card companies."

"I'm on it," Al lied as he moved out in front, trying not to limp too obviously.

There was a shuffling sound of feet on the gravel walkway leading up to the bar behind him and once he turned a haggard looking Hawaii came into view and hailed him. "Alfred! Alfie! Spain! Spain's on his...Oooh, he's here."

"Hola, Señora," he growled in a low tone.

"Yeah," Alfred muttered. "He's here."

"I called your phone but you didn't pick up." She looked pretty pissed off.

Double crap.

Tex beamed and greeted her. "Aloooooha! Hava' ii!"

Hawaii smiled a bit wearily, "Aloha, Pearl Baby."

"S'up, s'up, Mamá?" Tex returned.

Spain raised an eyebrow. "Mamá?"

She put a hand on her hip and her glare dared him to try and argue it down.

He shook his head, amused. "Mamá, come help Papi get the niños to the car."

"Watch and learn, ku'u ipo." Hawaii accepted the challenge and slung Tex's free arm over her shoulders. "Baby, is that a new shirt?"

"It is!" Tex replied cheerfully.

"Ooh. You just look _so_ handsome in it."

"...Gracias. I know flores is sometimes a risk, but I like them and Allie's so good at makin' 'em and I am mucho macho. So I thought, yes. Yes, Tejas, it may be the twenty-first century, but you can pull this off still. Like chaps. Me veo muy sexy en chaparreras."

"Oh, baby, you pull the flowers off. Doesn't he, Papi?"

Spain was wrangling Puerto Rico back close and gave a distracted grunt of a "yes."

"He never pays attention to me when I **_want_ ** him to pay attention to-"

Hawaii reached over whacked the back of Spain's head and didn't flinch an inch at his snarl.

"Doesn't Tejas look nice in his new shirt?"

Spain gave him a look over and muttered, "Sí. Sí. Sí. Muy guapo."

Tex sighed.

Hawaii glared. "Spain. Engage."

"S'alittle hard right now when Rico is finding every pothole in this parking lot."

"Perdóname, Papi, lo siento. No lo vuelvo hacer." He promptly tripped.

Spain didn't let him fall and pulled him near, giving him a quick kiss on the head. "Lo sé, mijo. Nunca estuviste ligero de pies."

With the attention off him, Alfred began to fall behind. He limped along unsure of where he fit into this moment at least until two hands grabbed him under the armpits and he was settled on Arthur's hip.

"An excellent job on those flowers."

Alfred turned bright red.

Because nobody...NOBODY except Texas and Molossia were supposed to know he could embroider things.

* * *

Alfred rested his head against the cool window of the passenger side and watched his breath fog against the glass.

Puerto Rico had been buckled into Hawaii's sedan and with a slew of compliments Tex was corralled into Spain's rental. Alfred had wanted to go with Tex but Spain had fished Tex's keys out of the cowboy's pocket and thrown them to England with a stern, " _You ruin his truck, I kill you."_

And considering Tex couldn't afford another insurance hike if something did befall the automobile, he reluctantly stayed with Arthur to supervise.

Unfortunately, that meant...riding with Arthur...

"You don't seem like you had a grand time of it all, _**poppet**_." The endearment was said in such a harsh, clipped tone, it didn't sound affectionate at all.

Alfred longed to turn on some music and stall the argument but didn't dare reach for the knob. Memories of having his hand swatted hard floated up.

"I _**said**_ , you don't seem like you had a grand time," Arthur repeated.

Alfred swallowed and shook his head as he agreed, "No."

Arthur made a sound not quite of approval but he followed it up with, "I could've come and gotten you sooner, you know?"

"No."

"Why not?" Arthur gripped the steering wheel tightly.

"I...I've always prided myself…"

"About what? Your penchant for misplaced nobility in matters-"

Alfred's eyes flashed and he whipped his head to deliver a glare. "That I never had to be that 3 am call!"

Not that it was 3 am. It was just a little past 11 pm. But the sentiment held!

He wasn't like Jett or Jake or Mattie or any of the man's other wards.

Whatever scrape he got himself into, he got himself out of.

Unbidden, he remembered staggering through the forest after breaking out of the cabin and Arthur's arms catching him before he fell.

Until...that…

Then he remembered Arthur's magic keeping that magic mirror from shattering over him…

Or that.

Then he remembered what Arthur had shared involving a rescue during WWI that the old man never lorded over his head or even mentioned.

Arthur was quiet for a while.

The harsh tone Alfred was expecting, planning to rail against, was noticeably absent when Arthur finally said, "Alfie, I _**want**_ you to call me. If you have the choice of suffering or calling me, damnation, boy, I _want_ that phone call. I don't care what unGodly hour it comes at."

"...but...but we're fighting...right now…I can't ask you for help when..." Even he didn't have that kind of gall.

"The hell you can't," was murmured softly. "Would you hesitate to call Texas if you were in a spot of trouble? Excluding this night of course. Just because you were having a row?"

"...he's different."

"Wrong."

"...he's different. He doesn't think I'm stupid and-and reckless and-"

"You want to prove to me you're responsible and mature? Know when you need help and ask for it." He leveled a look before staring back out the windshield. "...You're always welcome to ask me for it."

Alfred crossed his arms in frustration. "...it's different when it has to be you."

"It should be the best thing when it's me."

"Why?"

"Because I'm the one who'll always fret about whether you've eaten. And can hear your stomach growl a kilometer away."

A grainy voice asked for their order.

Alfred was gobsmacked, he hadn't realized they were pulling up to a McDonald's drive-thru.

"Now, what toy do you want me to ask for?" Arthur asked him kindly.

* * *

Arthur parked in an empty space and they ate their meal talking quietly about how to better navigate their disagreements in the future.

Because, damn it all, no, he didn't want America to feel trapped by choices that England thought he ought to make.

Though honestly...not wanting his young son languishing the night away in a seedy bar with an ill brother didn't seem unreasonable at all!

And Alfred's appeals that it wasn't about either of them, it was about Texas, made Arthur more frustrated.

Because Alfred was following a model that advocated complete liberty.

By that dogma, Texas or America could essentially do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted.

When he pointed out the dangers of such excess, he was countered with a 'they were willing to abide by the consequences.'

So it was liberty with accountability but it lacked foresight and caution.

No sense of moderation.

For God's sake where was the compromise?

He got a bewildered look when he introduced that.

During their mad drive all over town, bursting into bars in search of their offspring, England used Bing to uncover Texas' rules regarding alcohol.

By Texas' own laws, if he wanted to drink at home or even in public, he just needed Spain's consent and presence!

"W-well, yeah," Alfred nibbled a chip. "But...darts and games...and..."

"We could've gone to a restaurant or a sports bar and grill. That...actually would make for a very nice evening out, provided he was well," Arthur mused.

"You don't...that's not the point…"

"Is it all about exercising your freedom, even when you don't have a good time?"

"It wasn't about you or me, it was about Texas!"

"I don't understand." It took effort not to raise his voice in kind, but he was proud to say it was getting easier.

"I need him to know I'm behind him 212 percent. Always. Non-negotiable. And sometimes it means being in the trenches of a dumb idea."

Arthur nodded. "Loyalty, then."

"Yes!" he agreed in exasperation. "He's always got my back. Dude, he gave you a clear pass. He didn't have to, you know? He could've-could've and I'd...Can't you let this slide?"

Arthur blinked. "Sweet, I'm not angry at either of you. I'm concerned. There needs to be-" He didn't dare say boundaries "-a means of measuring what is and is not reasonable."

"..."

Careful, Arthur, treacherous ground here.

"Sometimes, people make poor decisions because they're not in a good position to make a choice."

Alfred stiffened at the blasphemy of suggesting such a thing.

Drunk people seldom made the soundest decisions. But before he could repeat that aloud—

"Texas isn't dumb! He works with NASA! And he does our taxes!"

He would not have guessed that but still, "That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying, he's sick with a very high fever and what he chooses to do and what he **_should_ ** do might not line up. And it's the job of the person who cares about him to-"

"Well, yeah, that's why I went to make sure nothing happened-"

"To talk them out of the poor idea."

Alfred finished off his chips and crumbled up the paper bag they came in.

Arthur offered him the rest of his own and Alfred's expression softened at the gesture and accepted.

Arthur took the quiet to be an agree-to-disagree truce and was about to turn the engine back on when—

"...sometimes I dunno how."

The honesty and hurt in that, stalled Arthur's hand.

Alfred scurried across the truck's bench to sit on Arthur's lap and have a cuddle.

It was a rather tight spot for such gestures (this truck's cabin was smaller than the previous model they'd spent Halloween in during that Wendigo fiasco) and the child admitted as much when he babbled that it was probably only because he'd shared close spaces in tanks that he didn't feel "uber" claustrophobic right now.

Apparently, it was easier to say that than own up to the reality that Alfred trusted him enough to be so close...despite his failings and whatever terrible things the boy remembered.

If that was what his ego needed for him to accept comforting, so be it. He smoothed the fringe back away from the child's forehead.

The horn honked when Alfred moved his elbow and Arthur adjusted the seat further back (though there wasn't too much room).

He eyed the digital clock, it was nearing midnight. He really needed to get them home.

"Did you really miss me?"

The drive could wait.

"Love," He kissed the child's temple. "I spent the whole night searching for-"

"After! After! When we were...apart...you wouldn't always see me...and when you did…"

He was often an arse, Arthur thought miserably.

"-was like you didn't want to know me anymore so there just wasn't much point in meeting with you if it wasn't for business."

The knife in his heart twisted.

"Of course I missed you. Why do you think I was so goddamn bitter?"

"...I know something of bitterness, too."

 _It was 1836 and the casket lowered and his last founding father was gone._

 _Cemeteries...they ate up his meadows and swallowed his friends...and they were breeding grounds for ghosts..._

 _He shivered thinking about it and resolved not to; it made it even harder to stand here alone._

 _He'd had to stand far and away where he could only hear snatches of the sermon because his nonaging form would cause alarm._

 _It wasn't unusual by now to be ordered thus. And he waited until the grave diggers were at work to say his goodbyes...to the man...to this chapter of his life._

 _Between the clods of dirt falling he mused that there would be no more parties or family gatherings that he was invited to for kindness's sake._

 _And there would be no gifts to purchase or expect on holidays._

 _His teapots and accessories would go into storage because he wasn't fond of tea and there wouldn't be anyone to entertain anymore._

 _He was set to be promoted to First Lieutenant and they'd been asking how many seats they should reserve for him at the ceremony; he usually requested a few...for those he wished would come and those that actually did._

 _But now, that time had ended. The humans who loved him best were gone. The nations who knew him still wouldn't appreciate such a summons...he'd learnt that at last._

 _There was no one to come. There was no one to invite. There was no need to grant him tickets for guests...anymore._

 _But he'd chosen this, so there could be no regrets and returned to the cabin where it was as cold and still as where he'd been._

 _Where there was no one waiting..._

 _Where no one would ever be waiting again..._

 _And in the dark, empty place with its one lit candle, one, because more would be wasteful when it was just him there, he scribbled his acceptance of bounty hunting missions that would drive him west into the wilderness._

 _For the promise of new, unexplored geography, for the distraction of new, unknown adventure…_

 _And if that weren't enough there was Texas, that curious New Republic, to consider and whether to catalogue him more definitively as an ally or enemy for America's people and government._

 _His people and government...because he'd outgrown allies and enemies...it was a waste of time and energy to view things personally._

 _He blew the candle out._

It wasn't bitterness and he was quick to tell the child so. There wasn't resentment in it...just weary resignation.

It was quiet sadness and he was sorry for it. He shared that too and that he would've attended those ceremonies if given half the chance.

He kept mum on how it would've been grudging at first (because he was the suspicious sort and would've seen it as his child flaunting his newfound adulthood in his face). Then there would've been a point of realization that it was his son's way of trying to bridge their differences by having him present for these milestones and he would've been deeply touched. And because he was a creature of habit and sentimental by nature, he would come to expect an invitation to every advancement in Alfred's military career and been grossly, comically, offended if he wasn't alerted and included.

"Did you really miss me?" was mumbled again, doubtfully.

He tightened his embrace and sent back memories of...

 _Counting out seats, planning meals, perusing shops...Alfred would like that...Alfred wouldn't like that...Alfred probably needs that..._

 _Stalks of grain, birds, meadows, a bonnie blue sky, a bright red ribbon held tightly between his fingers as he marked a half colored illustration of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight because it was the 4th of July and his health on this date just didn't permit him to make the trip...again._

 _There wasn't a day where he wasn't reminded of..._

 _Organize another event for science and medicine and technology and write out an invitation._

 _Watch eyes that used to light up when he entered a room or disembarked from a ship, brighten for strangers' names on a pamphlet…because they knew the latest innovation..._

 _Resent them because they have the knowledge **he** wants and you don't and you've tried to master those new areas but you don't have a head for that kind of figuring._

 _Staring hard at the shoulder of a second hand suit angry because why? Why can't swordsmanship and medieval literature and the things he_ _ **could**_ _do no longer fascinate?_

 _Walking along unable to follow the conversation as it turned to electrons and energy. He was just getting learned up on trains, and they were already off further down a rabbit hole of scientific theories and Arthur didn't know how to catch up._

 _He had a strong enough stomach to be present during dissections and he was always open to learning whatever could help him save the lives of civilians and soldiers but…_

 _He wasn't inquisitive in this field. He accepted the methods the doctors proscribed and applied them. He didn't know what to think when Alfred's arm kept raising to ask questions. At first, he was embarrassed and wanted him to stop. Until, he understood that it didn't bother the instructors to be interrupted because Alfred was on the verge of something great and he could see excitement in their eyes. And they invited him to luncheons and into other lecture halls._

 _Getting further and further away from him...and yet he dutifully arranged more meetings with great minds who would ensure the chasm between them grew because learning new things made those blue eyes glow. And what wouldn't he do to see that?_

 _He'd overheard some of those great, learned men and women remark about how they could always tell when his son had grasped some new concept. How epiphanies would light up his son's eyes. They'd tease he could power a row of Edison's bulbs easily._

 _It had to be excused and forgiven...that they thought so much of those embers of coal._

 _He remembered when those eyes shined with the brilliance of stars. Alas, epiphany was a poor substitute for joy._

 _Even still, he worked for those sparks...those pale echoes..._

 _The boy smiled inanely, civilly, at him from across the table as they dined at a gentlemen's club, Arthur's treat._

 _He sipped at his wineglass as he contemplated the dull eyes across from him and wished the child was happy to be there with him._

 _Maybe tomorrow…_

 _And when it failed._

 _The next…_

 _And that too…_

 _His next trip here._

 _What? Busy? No, send another letter. Arrange for more geniuses. Make it irresistible. Make it foolhardy not to attend._

 _And over and over like a prayer:_

 _Please,_ _ **please**_ _, come home to me._

"I tried! You weren't there! You weren't there!" was the hysterical shriek that blasted his eardrums.

And it was like having Red in his arms, though this time he wasn't muted...wasn't...restrained by Blue anymore.

Arthur was assaulted by chaotic glimpses of the ornate K key of Kirkland Hall, new and polished, being wrapped in a silk cloth. _Alfred being turned away even though he could hear Father through the door; he had the key in his pocket. Don't turn him away. Don't turn him away. How dare he turn him-_

 _He slapped his hand against the frame, "Father? Oh, Father! Damnation, don't be so churlish-"_

"You weren't there!"

 _Dashing off the letter because he needed Father's guidance desperately. He was a very inexperienced practitioner of the occult. He could injure himself if he wasn't cautious. If they could all just agree not to involve magic of any sort into this war, then perhaps his government could rest easy._

 _It was a naive hope because the truth was out: Alfred F. Kirkland was a witch...and his father and uncles as well. And how could it be assumed that they weren't even now using their powers against them?_

 _He was their nation. They wanted him to do more. If he was a witch, prove to be one of merit._

"You weren't there, anymore!"

 _And he was afraid. So afraid of everything. How terribly it could all fall out...He began to panic. Father! Father, where are you? Help me! I know not who else I can turn to-_

"You weren't there, Daddy!"

 _England was dining with his men at the fallen White House...and every hope and expectation tied to him...to Arthur...to Father...winked out._

"How could you _**leave me**_?!"

And to the child, despair was worse than dying.

* * *

Read & Review Please! : D


	33. Chapter 33

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Dante: _No sadness is greater than in misery to rehearse memories of joy."_ Or Zorro. Or Annie's "Tomorrow." Or _The Steam Man of the Prairies_ (I saw the cover for this the other day and...wow...I immediately knew America would dig it.)

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Implied anxiety attack. Rhys hogging the POV while Alistair and Reilley are on the sidelines. Spain being the rock-strong, supportive...dense. Puerto Rico being...an older brother. Family drama for both clans. Family fluff for one. Canada finding some empathy and empowerment. Allusion to more Plains War violence with a Euro-centric and American-centric bias...however, there were ghastly things done by all involved. Brief reference to the encomienda system as well as the horrific pearl diving practices that indigenous populations were forced to endure after Spanish colonies were established.

 **AN:** Thank you for your reviews! I read each and every one; they are not drops in the ocean and I really appreciate it when you take the time to write me something. They keep me motivated for writing. And a special thanks to FlowerFoxWings for continuing to polish up/translate lines into Spanish. Good lord, this turned out to be a long chap. I just can't bring myself to split it. And now I must go off to take a scary exam D : But before I go, here you are. I hope you enjoy this update! : D

 **Chapter 33: A Rubbernecker For Tragedy**

* * *

Rhys assured for the third time that there was no need for Mr. Gray to sit up with him and wait for them all to return.

Following Arthur's example, well, after he'd written out all that Alfred had shared with him (poring over the details until he was certain he'd recorded everything as faithfully as he could manage), he realized he couldn't stay there in the hotel either.

He then called Uber to drive him to the ranch house and was welcomed by Mr. Gray and the two drank tea, made some supper, ate together and proceeded to wait, wait, and wait some more.

Mr. Gray reluctantly acquiesced to his wishes and Rhys was left to his own devices.

He pushed up his reading spectacles and turned another page of one of Alfred's dime novels.

He heard vehicles pull into the drive but didn't sense his family.

He moved himself into a chair by the window and eased the glass open to better eavesdrop.

Hawaii was helping Puerto Rico out of her car, meanwhile an altercation between Spain and Texas, who were already out and standing in the driveway, seemed imminent.

Spain stood with his arms crossed and his face nonplussed while his son ranted at him.

"I'mma gonna call the Feds, er...the Guard, er...uh...wait...no, the cops! Yeah, cuz yer trespassin' and aw hell with it," Tex growled and later tossed the phone aside when it became clear he was too drunk to dial properly. Rhys heard dial tones from where it landed several meters away.

"I'll haul yer ass off my property myself," Tex boasted.

"Ohhh, you want to fight, huh? Big tough guy now, huh? ¿Crees que puedes retar a Papi?

"No, don't do it!" Ricardo slurred. "Papi, if he's real drunk, Tejas will be mean! I dunno if he'll pull his punches! I seen it! I SEEEEEEN him throw a man through a window!"

Spain shrugged, "You get one shot!"

Texas needed no further invitation; he charged and swung. But Spain dodged, grabbed him by the legs and hoisted him over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes.

Tex was stunned. "Tha's not. Tha's not how...you're s'posed to do it. When you say 'one shot' means you stand and take the shot. You...you, cheater!" He slapped at Spain's back. "Allie, hey Al!? Tell him he's a cheater!"

"Al is not here, idiota," Puerto Rico snapped but then offered in support: "Usted es tramposo. Papi, you don't dodge those. Not when you, uh, what do you and Al say?"

"High noon! Callin' me out to high noon. See? Seeeeeeeeee? Even Rico gets it."

"Tomorrow, after your fever breaks. If you still want to hit Papi, even after _allllll_ the tender care he's given you. Fiiiine. But it will be tomorrow."

Rhys winced at the new, creatively violent sometimes rhyming lyrics Tex devised on the spot to the melody of _Annie's_ "Tomorrow" and Hawaii discreetly entered, noticed him, and came over to join with.

"Arthur's with Alfred. I think they're talking it out," she offered. "But...I probably should've taken him along. Al can always handle Tex the best during these Wild West relapses. But his phone's still off."

Rhys became increasingly unsure if he'd need to intervene. The Carriedos weren't technically his responsibility and it wasn't his place to discipline Tex for disrespecting his family members...only the situation seemed to be escalating and Tex's insults only increased in volume after Spain carried him in.

"He's out of my sphere of influence," Hawaii murmured. "Once his temper's fired up, we either need America or Alaska to shut him down."

Spain set Texas down none too gently onto a beanbag chair and then crossed the room to lean against a wall and observe him. He crossed his arms and his face was dark as he stated, "So you hate me, huh?"

Rhys felt his stomach flop. O good. Melodrama. As if his own clan didn't subject him to enough. He took some Tums.

"Yeah! I hate you! I _**HATE**_ you! Hateyouhateyouhateyou! ¡Apestas!"

Hawaii flinched at the tone.

"That why you disappeared? You hate me and wanted to _**hurt**_ me?"

"Fuck you! Whaddyou even care, you didn't even say goodbye! I was...I was a kid and you didn't even say goodbye! You said 'good luck?' Good luck? The fuck does that mean? I didn't need a 'good luck' I needed to know you lo...but you didn't even say goodbye or write to me or visit, didn't even-even when you were there! You were there at that ball! Azura and I did a dance. You saw us. I was taller. I got taller, Boss. People in mercado start to call _me_ , 'Señor.' No joking-like, for real. And you didn't even come over-you never-and then when I went over to you-you and you couldn't even-and then when I was independent and you never...you never...And then when I was annexed you never—You didn't care. You didn't write back to me, you son of a bitch. You don't get to just do this, now. You didn't say goodbye."

"...I never say….in...situations like that, Toni, I...I never say... Because I don't want it to be goodbye. Because being familia doesn't stop because my...rule stops. I-"

"Well, I like goodbyes! In case shit happens then I know everythin's tidy. If I go out and don't come back I ain't leavin' anythin' that's important half done."

"So, you gave _**me**_ the goodbye instead?" Spain pointed to the boy's rosary. "Goodbye means it's over. The end. You _never_ tell _me_ goodbye. I was a wreck!"

"Well, you never bothered to show up so what does it matt-"

"I came; I tried to find your grave on three trips. Because something should have grown where you had fallen. It's usually a tree. Rome had a tree. Taino left a tree. I wasn't sure if you'd be a Pecan tree or a cacti or what. But I'd know when I saw it. I'm your papi, I...I'd _know_. I had to give up because it was too painful. I go places and fail and I get hope. You know what hope does? It makes you not able to sleep! To concentrate. Go a little further. Check again. Still, I can't find your grave. Maybe it is you are alive? But why doesn't any of the government know? Why wouldn't they know if you are alive? Why would they lie? Why would they make me do business with America when they had you? When they could send _**you**_ to me as diplomat? You speak Spanish. You know me, my culture. I know you. You are _**my**_ Tejas, no diplomat from America would be received better. Woe to any who treat you poor in my kingdom! Even now! I want you to come. I have Madrid Deep Space Communications Complex, you have-"

"Goddammit, that's right. Dammit, you like space too?"

Spain blinked and nodded, "Yes, I like the heavens. Son hermosos."

Brown eyes narrowed. "Well, you can't. Cuz it's my thing."

"He does this about the flag too, Papi. Like he's the only one allowed to have a solo star-"

"You and Cuba copied!"

"No, we didn't!¡Imbécil!"

"¡Basta! Rico, Papi is handling this. You are not helping me." Spain gave him a warning look before turning back to Texas and giving a flat answer of, "I liked the heavens when you were still a starry twinkle in my eye. I am the reason you like them, mijo. You got that from me."

"...well, you're still mean...and scary...and you're never there for me."

"How can you be saying this? Yes, maybe back then. Yesyesyes, fine. Papi was not good at managing his home life with his career. But it was different then; I was the breadwinner...of a very, very big family. I worked hard to keep you all fed, clothed, housed. Every one of you had several pairs of shoes. I worked _hard_ for that, mijo. Yes, my working kept me from you, but I am here right now," Spain argued a bit shrilly.

"Nope."

"I am two feet. Look, now I am a foot away from you. Look again, I am here. Riiiight beside you. I am RIGHT here, RIGHT now."

"...You're still mean and scary and it just makes me-"

Spain's lip curled back. "Makes you what? Hate me? Makes you want to hit me? Hmm? Makes you want to hurt me? Well? ¡Dime!"

Texas shook his head.

"Tell me now?" He demanded. "It makes you what?" he snarled, reaching out and giving Tex's shoulder a hard shake.

The lad burst into noisy tears.

Hawaii stood up but hesitated on whether to move forward. Rhys shared her dilemma.

"Oh...it...it make...makes you sad," Spain murmured; he wilted at his own observation and then moved forward to wrap an arm around his former colony.

Puerto Rico blew out a long exasperated breath and looked over at Rhys and Momilani. "He's always been a crybaby."

"Ricardo," Antonio hissed from where he was consoling his other child. ""Sé amable a tu hermanito. He just has deep feelings!" He focused back on Tex. "Lo siento...mi Tonito. Your temper was so like mine right then I just...forgot for a moment you are delicate."

"I am NOT delicate!" Texas snapped. He sniffled, "You stupid, creepy, conquistador. I knew what you did. I knew it was blood on you. The others didn't know what you did. But I did. Mejico didn't even have to tell me. I knew what y'all did from the start. What the encomienda system did! How you got your gold and silver and pearls!"

Spain stiffened and then nodded. "Ah…" he went very pale and then nodded resignedly. He sighed and agreed with a sad smile, "Que asusto."

Tex rubbed at his running nose with the cuff of his sleeve. "And the worse part is...I didn't want to grow up into you. I didn't want to! But I did! Cuz they killed Al. They killed him! They hacked him open and he died in my arms and I fucking lost my mind!"

* * *

Rhys's eyes were blurring from fatigue as he read through _The Steam Man of the Prairies_ which was yet another dime novel in Alfred's collection; a particularly ridiculous one in his estimation. He adjusted his pair of reading glasses.

Alfred had underlined certain lines, sometimes adding his own rebuttals or admiration. He'd also doodled here and there: Texas was a favorite subject.

Although Alfred lacked Mathieu's artistic talents by leaps and bounds and the faces he drew were cartoonish and rudimentary, he captured his Texan brother's moods masterfully. Rhys found himself snickering at a caption of " _Read this part to Texas. He was less than impressed"_ and there was an accompanying caricature.

A particularly loud snore drew his attention to where Spain had camped down in the middle of the parlor with both of his sons, despite there being no couch. Apparently, two blankets for the boys and one pillow for Spain was enough. Or maybe that was strategic and he liked being their pillow.

After a lot of yelling and crying and arguing (sometimes in English, sometimes in Spanish) and then discussing the finer points of random non sequitur subjects, Spain forced a group hug and they all, more or less, settled down.

Wales envied that Spain had an ease in...moving over obstacles. The Spaniard could accept failings, catalogue them, implement new strategies, and move on—letting the past chapters close. It made it easy for him to "switch gears" as it were. He could go from being angry to remorseful to supportive to concerned about his sons getting sleep and not get tangled up in the things that had come just a moment before.

His children seemed similar. The Texas who'd come through the door furious, was the same Texas curled up on Spain's left side. And for all the quarreling Puerto Rico did with his family members he had no hang ups about being there with them now.

Unfortunately, the trait Spain passed on that was truly obnoxious was...that they all snored, loudly.

Rhys sighed and turned another page. He resisted calling Arthur because he didn't want to interrupt them if they were having a heart to heart, but it was getting harder as the hours progressed.

It was nearing 2 in the morning when his brother and nephew arrived.

He knew immediately something was wrong and hurried to open the door.

Bloodshot green eyes met his as he staggered up the porch with a sleeping Alfred in his arms.

Unable to help himself, the first thing out of his mouth was, "I told you not to delve there and now you've gone and hurt yourself."

The worst part was how aware he was that it was fragments of a speech he'd often given centuries ago to all three of his brothers (apart, together, or in combination) whenever they did something unnecessary that got them injured or sick when he distinctly warned them against it.

For Arthur, it was usually brambles. He'd scramble through and get all scratched or not realize there were nettles growing up between the shrubs and—

There must've been something familiar...familial...safe in the rebuke because Arthur sagged against him and his shoulders shook.

Which was the usual reaction that scolding provoked...more than two millennia ago. Though his brother had so much more at stake now.

He didn't want his nephew's illness to relapse or for his brother to contract it so he rambled soothingly in Welsh and firmly guided them inside where it was warm, locking the door behind them and helping Arthur step over the Spanish family kipping in the middle of the space.

"I'm jealous," Arthur muttered tonelessly. "He's ended his night far more peacefully than I."

"..."

For privacy, Rhys chose them a guest room at a far corner of the house. He wrinkled his nose at the barracks feeling of the room but pulled the sheets back of a lower bunk.

He then moved away so Arthur could tuck the child in.

When Arthur sat down on the edge of the bed, Rhys joined him and waited.

"I failed him," Arthur choked out. "I let him down."

Rhys nodded.

Arthur took a deep breath and then went off on a tangent. "His government knew he was a magic practitioner...back then."

Rhys's eyebrows rose. They'd known about the superior officer, but the whole government knew? Did they still know?

Arthur pulled out his handkerchief and mopped at his face. "I've texted Detective Jenkins to follow up on that and I-I ordered a booster seat from Amazon...should come soon...expedited shipping."

"Albion…"

"Needed to feel like I did _something_ tonight that was...helpful."

"Brawd bach-"

"That night...he saw the British Empire was there and...Father wasn't. ' _How could you leave me?'_ he said. He's right. How could I? He did come to me…he did. But I thought he was coming to boast about...he was such an insolent...but...no...I did this. I made this...mess." He looked Rhys in the eye. "I fucked it all up. Damnation...I...all up...all of it...I..."

Rhys frowned, that was taking a bit too much credit in his opinion; everyone had played a part. And Alfred's silence and secrecy had done no one any favors.

"And he just...I could feel him just…" his hands made a gesture of something...breaking.

"Arthur, you should've let me handle that." Painful as it would have been on him with his powers to experience; it didn't feel right to let his brother take the brunt of it. It probably never would.

"..."

"Ar-"

"Mine. My Alfred. That was my Alfred." He pulled out a very small portrait Rhys recognized from centuries ago.

"Where did-"

"Alfie had it..."

"..."

"Just got it back from him." He traced his thumb over the enamel. "My Alfred Faer Kirkland. Sassy thing. Such idealism. Such gall. Such...whimsical ideas. He was young and strong and stupid and passionate and fierce and bright and beautiful and spoiled and...mine. He was in such pain." Arthur pocketed the portrait and and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes.

Rhys nodded. His brother had felt it...the despair Alfred experienced…

Arthur looked back up. "But his eyes blazed. He was there. Don't just nod. Those eyes. You don't know what they mean to me."

Oh but he did.

Because Arthur kept projecting memories of them at him: delighted, curious, fearful, angry, eager, frustrated, adoring…horrified...betrayed...heartbroken...hopeless...empty...

Arthur knew those eyes…

And now he knew every emotion that flitted through them.

He knew those eyes...

Jewel bright and beloved.

"Those eyes looked on me and...you don't understand those eyes...they weren't just stars...those eyes were mirrors...that loved me best and then they were _broken_...then they saw me all _wrong_. Or maybe they saw me as I really was...finally...And they never..."

They never lit up right again. The hex ensured it and Alfred's expression got harder for Arthur to read...even years later when their bond was restored.

"Arthur, take care. Think of the terminology you're using. Blaze. Bright. That's fire, Arthur. You don't want to burn."

Arthur ran a hand through his hair. "I've burned for lesser offenses. I did a terrible thing to him. If I must be singed to get those stars to shine again, so be it."

"Mirror shards...sharp, cutting, dangerous. Arthur, your subconscious knows what your will ignores. Caution is needed here."

"You just don't understand," he snapped softly. "He was there. My Alfred in all his intensity."

"Your Alfred and his passions did great injury to us in the past and if we're not car-"

"...despair," Arthur murmured. "The intensity of his despair."

He seemed to be calming down...somewhat as his brow furrowed in contemplation.

"Despair," Arthur repeated. " _No sadness is greater than in misery to rehearse memories of joy."_

"What?"

"Alfred keeps saying that to me when I...well," he continued more candidly, "when I pry into 1812. And forgetting Spring. He says he had to forget Spring. That he was in Winter...I know it's all...odd...strange..."

"The only reason people endure Winter is with the hope of Spring. That's the whole point of Yule."

Arthur's mouth made an 'o' and then became a grim line before he said, "If you knew Spring wasn't coming."

"What?"

"If you knew...or thought that you KNEW without doubt that Spring wasn't coming and you didn't want to be haunted by it. You'd want to forget it. If Spring never existed for you, you could live in Winter without ever feeling the loss."

"You're losing me in metaphor."

"He had to shake loose the despair so he surrendered joy. They can't exist without...they're both anchors on the same plane."

Rhys frowned.

Arthur began thinking aloud, "Hex of the doubting eye...that's what the UnSeelie King called it...but then Lome said when he was casting the hex Alfred kept asking for more...but how did it turn to doubt? Doubting memories? Forgetting memories?"

Arthur gripped Rhys's hand hard and shared what the old elf had said:

" _...his mind flooded. He wanted to be strong. He wanted to be great. He wanted to be glorious. He wanted a heart made impervious. He wanted to forget. And that forgetting wish was different than the first one. It spanned from the war to you lot to himself."_

"He made a multitude of wishes. Well, that's what caused the hex to spiral," Rhys muttered. Again feeling frustrated with Alfred, so much experimental magic: a fortitude spell, a shapeshifting spell, a hex…

These were all deep-reaching spells that manipulated or rearranged his person...

"Wot?" Arthur asked in concern.

"He has no sense of preservation."

"...no. No, he didn't...back then. He just dived in...because he believed in all that was good and that it would go right...he was like that...now...now he dives into things...out of...gallantry...duty…"

"Two forgetting wishes. The first. We don't know what that was. And then the second and the second was different. The second was the...the reason why I was forgotten…"

Arthur faltered as if only realizing that part and gave him an awkward squeeze on his arm in sympathy.

"But it was just me…" Rhys felt himself bristle. It was so monstrously unfair.

"And magic...and being a practitioner of it...and much of me was lost too...or _distorted…_ "

They both looked over to where the child was resting, face somber, body still.

Rhys blew out an exasperated breath. "But he doesn't remember what he wished…"

"He wasn't thinking right," Arthur asserted. "He was so young and he was pushed to his limits...he wasn't…" Arthur's head tilted and he began nodding. "He wasn't... _well_...when he made the wish. He wasn't well. How could he be? He was under siege as a nation and a person. He was under great pressure from his government. He was suffering from our estrangement. He feared we'd use our magic against him."

Rhys flinched at that. Not to say that they never hexed or cursed one another in times of trouble or pettiness but there were boundaries! If Rhys did cast a spell or two over his brothers, it was so they overslept or something of the like. What he'd done to Yamasee was different…that was...different.

Hexing America in any capacity during that damned war never crossed his mind.

Arthur steepled his fingers. "He was….paranoid. He was paranoid and betrayed and in danger and it made him unwell...unwell and desperate and willing to take a risk and make a wish with Lome."

That…

They shared a look.

That made more sense...it was beginning to shape up.

"Desperation," Rhys murmured. "That's a recurring pattern. When he was Roanoke he cast the fortitude spell, later when his colonies were in danger again he shifted to an older age where he'd be taken seriously, when all went wrong in 1812...he…"

"He's a gambler," Arthur breathed. "He makes absurd gambles when he thinks he's nothing to lose and all to gain. Alfie, what could you gain that was so worthwhile by losing so much?"

No answers came from the boy but his hand twitched and Arthur took it in his. "I'm here, my boy…" and then laughed a bit in self-deprecation, "whatever that's worth..."

* * *

Alfred woke up on a guest room bed sandwiched between Arthur and Rhys. The three of them baaaaarely fit, if any of them sneezed Rhys would fall onto the floor.

Dude, when did Rhys get here? Heck, when did he and Arthur get here?

Judging by the light, it was late morning.

His hair was being pet by Arthur and his shoulders by Rhys.

Neither were paying attention to him, they were holding a soft conversation about music.

"Yes, you should hear him play violin. You must ask him. He's a prodigy."

"Arth-"

"I'm not exaggerating. I don't need to. The way he goes through notes. Beautiful. And the way he kept at it, mastering the instrument. He chose to continue on his own, you know? Not badgering from me like Jet. Dedication and talent...I'm proud."

"Who...are you talking about?" Alfred asked groggily. He liked hearing other violinists play and measuring himself against their greatness. Sometimes he even called them out for a friendly competition.

Arthur looked down, "About you, Sweet."

He felt his face flame.

Arthur frowned, "Whatever is the matter?"

"I...I only play the one instrument very well."

He remembered watching the Empire's wards go from one instrument to the next. It was better to leave his violin in his trunk than to be a one-trick pony.

He could manage a few military tunes for the trumpet, but his best, "Taps," wasn't a real feel-good, crowd-pleaser.

"Better the one magnificently than a fleet adequately."

Which...wasn't adhering to the old rhyme at all:

 _Jack of all trades, master of none,_

 _though oftentimes better than master of one._

"..." He just...wasn't sure how to take the compliment. So he decided it was as good a moment as any, "Yeah, I'm...sorry about...last night. I just...emotionally barfed all over you. All over. It was gross for me, it was worse for you...cuz you did actually, physically... But yeah, sorry I-"

He was swept into a crushing embrace. "I want to be someone you turn to in times of trouble. You were right...back then to...I-I could've guided you out-"

Rhys muttered, "I wish you would've traveled to us rather than write. They were going through your mail."

"They thought it would be bad for morale if I left the country during the war," he returned so matter of factly that even he was surprised how he knew it. And realized it meant he'd asked to do so and was denied.

Which made Arthur's face contort like he was in physical pain.

It still wasn't as bad as last night.

Because last night...last night after Alfred...freaked out at him…

 _Alfred stared as all the color went out of Arthur's face…_

" _You...you came to...you…came to-"_

 _Even in the dimness of the late hour with only signs and a nearby traffic intersection to give light, the horror was obvious._

" _...to give me…"_

 _Arthur had handled wendigo, boogeymen, fae, and whatever Nekosi had ended up as without batting an eye and yet…_

 _The key to Kirkland Hall was the straw that broke..._

" _You...you came to my office to...give-"_

 _And yeah, Alfred had made the key all special and fancy and yeah...he never really got over being turned away…and then worse things happened..._

" _You...came...home...to me…?"_

 _The words came out...disjointed and reminded Alfred of broken glass grinding together._

 _Arthur abruptly moved him off his lap and exited the truck._

 _For a moment, Alfred just sat there and stared at the open door feeling numb as the vehicle dinged because the keys were in the ignition._

 _He slid down and followed after, standing unsurely as he listened to the man throw up._

 _He shivered and wrapped his arms around himself, just...not knowing what to do._

 _A cold wind tugged at his clothes, he ought to go back to the truck where it was warmer but he shuffled closer to where Arthur was kneeling near bushes._

 _He must've gotten some sun earlier today, to feel so cold now..._

 _The Briton hazardly crawled his way to the curb and sat down. The blond kept staring down at the gutter and shaking his head._

 _At the sound of Alfred's limping approach, he startled and burst out, "I'msosorryI'msorryI-I-" his breath hitched. "O Alfie..."_

 _Alfred shivered again._

 _Arthur removed his coat and put it around Alfred, turning the collar up. "...God, I...O darlingheart, I...I...Oh God, I-" he turned and covered his mouth with his hand and gagged like he was going to throw up again._

 _When Arthur recovered enough to look at him again, he choked out, "_ _Mīn childe…"_

 _He'd been angry with Arthur's presentation of his side of their estrangement because it was just so…'I'll welcome you back with open arms my prodigal son,' which was just friggin' frustrating. Because one, no he didn't. And two, standing up for his people's rights wasn't wrong! He wasn't some twit who gallivanted around, spent up his inheritance, and came crawling back._

 _If he wanted forgiveness, it was for hurting his father's feelings—Not for disobeying him._

 _He didn't regret that._

 _Still, he must've thrown a harder hit than he'd thought...if it knocked Arthur back into Old English._

 _He babbled on a bit and then seemingly realized Alfred couldn't understand him. His accent was still a bit off as he said, "You-you don't have to-to stay out here with me. Y-you're cold, g-go to the truck. T-turn on the-stay warm, Sweet."_

 _Alfred stood and stared. Because...it was a total trainwreck and he'd always been a rubbernecker for tragedy._

 _It was kinda unavoidable…_

 _The hero couldn't always save the day...sometimes they arrived just in time for the aftermath._

 _Arthur shook his head and grasped Alfred's face with trembling hands before releasing him...letting his hands just drop._

 _There'd always been something about when the old man cried._

 _Something familiar in the sadness..._

 _Something that rooted him and made him stay._

 _He should have laughed. Joked about the greasiness of the burgers getting the better of him or about the man's expression._

 _For the first time in his life, Arthur seemed as young as he looked, like some out of luck twenty-three-year-old who had no fucking clue what to do next._

 _It should've made him laugh._

 _That he got to see the British Empire stumble and fall on his metaphorical ass..._

 _Like some green newbie seeing his first battle..._

 _Like men America saw at Nam, or in the trenches, or out on a tree stump in the isolation of the frontier when they just couldn't deal anymore..._

 _It should've made him laugh._

 _Because England was always so smug and together. Because even when something surprised him he wasn't undone. Because even as London burned he'd held fast, carried all his responsibilities and duties, ordered his men with cool confidence and kept all of his colonies calm._

 _He should've laughed at seeing him reduced thus...so why?_

 _Why did he have to bawl at him instead?_

 _Like the first time England had to leave on his ship and America didn't want him to go because he knew...he knew with a wisdom born of experience that nobody who left on those ships ever came back. They were always leaving._

 _So many settlers and explorers, captains and swashbucklers had been lost. And all their promises of return were for naught. They never came back to him._

 _John Smith was a liar._

 _And he couldn't lose this person...this person who was different...this person who was a-a-a_ _ **thing**_ _like him..._

 _And not just a thing but Water-father, his Water-father, and he loved his little Alfred and if he never came back-_

 _Soul-shearing sorrow escaped him._

 _Like it had when he wrestled free of his nanny and raced down the dock and howled._

 _Because Arthur getting lost in his head while Alfred stood to the side...felt like being abandoned yet again._

 _...always leaving him… And he tried to communicate that but...but..._

 _"Shh, love, shh. S'alright. Nonono, I'm right here. Not leaving, not leaving," was murmured in his ear as arms came around him and he was carried into the truck._

 _The dinging sound stopped as the door closed._

 _"I'm right here, my sweetling."_

 _He was given soft shushes and soothing lies that "everything was going to be alright" even though it wasn't. It couldn't. Because everything that was wrong happened too long ago to be fixed properly._

 _But the rudimentary checklist of comforting was followed._

 _His hair was pet, he was held close, he was bombarded with sweet nonsense: endearments and affection._

 _Alfred mumbled and twisted his hands into his father's collar and vest._

 _He had to get it off his chest. "...y-you didn't come back...so I came to get you..."_

 _Arthur nodded._

 _"F-father, you...you-you disappeared..."_

 _Arthur shuddered but nodded determinedly._

 _"You took 'home' with you." And he couldn't explain it any better than that...that-that hole that had been left..._

 _Arthur took a ragged breath. "I'm sorry. I know that's not enough."_

 _Alfred looked up._

 _And tears that weren't his own burned as they fell on his hands._

Alfred hesitantly reached a hand to that collar—poking at where a button had popped off.

He must've done that when—

Arthur took the hand gently between his and traced his knuckles with the pads of his fingers.

Rhys was apoplectic. "It's horrible, it's just—they just didn't want you to go. We would've recognized you as a diplomatic presence and if you had made it known that you, as a personification, were in distress. We could've taken you to some neutral nation to host you. Especially, if you felt ill at ease with us because of-Or if you'd prefer being at home—we'd have just...found you somewhere safe outside of the public eye—"

And it was touching to realize his usually stoic uncle was beyond furious on his behalf.

"It's one thing to choose to fight us nation to nation, for duty or honor but if you're not choosing-If-if you're being coerced. Well, that's an entirely different matter."

"You said 'distress,'" he murmured, looking over his shoulder.

His uncle nodded vigorously. "Yes, when a nation or personification is being commanded unethically or abused and comes forward it is the duty of his fellow nations to deliver him to a safe place of said nation's choosing until they can make their return."

"You can do that?" Alfred asked.

He almost regretted saying that because of the wide eyed looks of fear and concern he received.

Still, this sounded important so he asked more and was immediately bombarded with advice. That there were lines. There were boundaries. There were necessary rest periods.

"Rest periods?" Alfred murmured.

"Well, of course. All out wars besides, it's vital for there to be periods of non combat or selective attendance. How can you be a proper nation if you don't get to experience society as a civilian as well?"

"..."

"Not to mention if you have duties to family? Sometimes it allows for better legislative input in Parliament. None of us are on active-duty right now, chwb. We go in for training to keep fit, we visit bases to see new policies and technologies, but we don't have to continuously serve-"

"Texas could stay!" he blurted. "T-texas could stay with me while I'm...while I'm like this?"

Rhys cleared his throat and clarified, "As a guardian?" He was almost carefully neutral as he continued, "I suppose he could...if he curbed a range of habits..."

He felt hope fill him. "Yeah! That could be our work-around. He'd be my guardian on paper and we could move our assets into his name. I mean he's already on almost all of my accounts. Dude! Dad, I don't have to act on the 'inhuman' strategy if I can just get them onboard with Tex..."

He had to share that. He had to share that! NOW!

They'd been unsure of how to handle his downsizing. It was kinda assumed Texas would have to pick up America's slack, and Alfred would just have to figure out what he was gonna do. But if they weren't required to be on duty...if they could go into some sort of deep reserve or temporary retirement status until America grew again…

Wait a minute…

Texas…

There was some feeling of apprehension at the edge of his mind when he thought about his brother.

His heart skipped.

Texas!

"OMG! I have to check on Texas, what if Spain-"

"What if Spain, what?" Spain asked abruptly as he passed by the open door.

Diplomacy skills activate.

Because sometimes honesty wasn't the best policy and starting off a day or a conversation with, ' _Good morning, you're still here...and alive. I totally banked on you ruining things forever and being cast out of our house'_ wasn't the best foot to balance on.

He shifted uncomfortably. Think of something, think of something, think of something: "I-I dunno. Tex, he, uh...gets ornery? When he's drunk? Soooo last night? You make it out okay?"

Good save. Cuz Tex was cool with being used as an excuse the same way America was. There were plenty of times where Tex didn't go into work or attend things because "America" was sick, injured, in need of a lift, flying in, flying out, trapped in a fence, regardless of if he was in the state, let alone the country.

"Oh, ehhh, yes...he is a little ornery." There were bags under the Spaniard's eyes and he seemed pretty tired. "But he is a good boy. Even his ornery isn't too bad."

Alfred didn't believe that for a minute.

Spain seemed to guess it and shrugged. "Often, I host for World Cup."

Like that it explained it. Dude, what was he talking about?

"Anyways, his fever broke," he announced triumphantly, "I have been looking for you."

"To tell us that?" Rhys asked, perplexed.

"Yes. That and I am making breakfast. Tejas doesn't want poor America to be stuck with oatmeal again."

America scrambled after him; if there was anything he'd learned in his many years, it was pragmatism and a good meal with his brother's good company was too good a thing to pass up.

* * *

Tex ran a hand through his hair. Wasn't sure where his hat had gotten to, hopefully, it'd turn up soon. He fiddled with his buckle and stared at his boots.

Pleasedon'task. Pleasedon'task. Pleasedon't-

"Soooo?" Alfred drew out as he gingerly eased his feet out of his boots.

Dammit. This was just embarrassing.

"Goddammit, Al, I'm just not a mysterious person." Tex stomped a foot. "I ain't good at squishin' it all down."

Spain, who was cooking and eavesdropping unabashedly, leaned into the room with a sizzling pan and a large spatula in hand. "Nonono, mijo, you are perfect! Bah, mystery. What, you still want to be Zorro? Don't be Zorro. Be Tejas. Papi loves his Tejas just how he is...mi pequeñito cactus."

Texas flushed.

America raised an eyebrow.

"Eeeeyeah. I kinda just...blurted stuff out at him last night."

"You told him about your weird Zorro thing?"

Tex stared at the ceiling fan for a full minute before looking down at his brother. "Yeah Al, I kinda did. Like I said, not good at squishin' it all down 'specially when I'm drunk. And who doesn't want to be Zorro?"

"You are more amazing than Zorro," Spain argued.

"No, I'm not but thanks for playin-"

"Yes, you are."

"N-"

"Yes. You. Are." Spain replied in a tone that brooked no more argument. He then abruptly beamed. "But last night was good talk. We need to talk more like that just...with less alcohol and threats of violence," Spain replied earnestly. "I think it was very good start."

He returned to the kitchen.

Al continued staring at Tex. "What about your _plaaaan_?"

He felt his face heat up. Yeah, bein' drunk made him deviate; he could still punch him, Rico told him Spain had made the offer, so that part wasn't a dream. Unfortunately, the part where he cried and the part where he wanted Spain to sing to him...and he did...also really happened. So there was that. But...if he did punch him out of the blue...without the proper melodramatic buildup...Stuart would probably get on his case about it and then there was the government. But to be honest, he wasn't really sure if even a good solid punch would be enough to knock him out of his life. Spain was like Bermuda Grass.

"You just blurted stuff at him?" Al repeated back.

"Yes. I like it that way," Antonio called cheerfully. "Toni, you tell me what is the problem. I _**fix**_ the problem. Or I listen to your feelings and validate them like the self-help sites say to do and I make sure you know what a good boy you are. Which I think is obvious, but I will say it as much as you need to hear so that you can have nice, strong sense of self-est-"

"Yeeeaaaah...Shoot me...please."

Alfred shook his head. "That's your bed, mister. Sleep in it."

"¡Desayuno, niños!" Spain called cheerfully. His tone wasn't as nice when Texas and Puerto Rico shuffled in and he followed it up with, "Algo para mejorar tus resacas.""

Texas felt some sting in that last bit. Spain had already mentioned twice that morning that he knew people Tex could call or write for help if his drinking habits were a _problem_. Which Spain clearly thought they were.

When Tex tried to complain that Spain wasn't giving Puerto Rico such a hard time, the Spaniard shrugged that Rico wasn't the one underage and using alcohol as a crutch.

Which was just so...blunt and-and-no, he was just trying to have a good time...didn't have a problem...maybe when he was younger...yeah...definitely... but not now. It made things awkward…as if waking up that morning hadn't been awkward enough.

Spain did at least return the wallet he'd nicked from him, but the fake ID was gone. And when he'd requested it back, Spain threw his head back and laughed, then patted him on the cheek and told him he was funny.

"This all looks soooo goood!" Alfred was over the moon to see Patatas Brava, because fried anything was welcome for breakfast for him.

"Tapas," Rico nodded resignedly as he squinted at everything and ordered they eat with the blinds closed and no kitchen lights on.

"You should've eaten more and drank less," Antonio assessed frankly but he still kissed both his sons on the cheek later when he whisked their empty plates away.

Alfred poked Tex's elbow, "Bro, I don't understand what went on."

Spain answered for him, "Oh well, you know how it is, you niños. He was afraid he was turning into Papi. The _horror_. But that's silly." Spain reached over to comb some of Tex's hair with his fingers.

It was super frizzy and curly today—Gah, he needed his hat!

"He is much too sweet. S'funny."

"It ain't funny," Tex muttered, pushing the hand away.

"S'very funny." The same hand tousled his hair. "Makes me laugh."

"No."

"You? As scary as Papi? Never. The orders? Yes. The violence? Yes. The campaign and aim? Yes. You? Who attacks because of grief? No. You are just wrong person to cross. Your government make use of that. Your enemies underestimate. You said yourself. They laughed at your grief. I'm sure they stopped laug-"

"I don't want to be like y-"

"Ohhhh no!" Spain remarked in a sarcastically flat tone as he got up to go to the sink and began scrubbing dishes. "I am violent when someone I _**love**_ is taken from me. How will the world _**ever**_ understand? What a terrible trait to inherit? Wait, is this an insult?"

"It's bad enough I'm a junior, I don't wanna be psycho-Spain-junior."

"You're getting a shirt with that label," Puerto Rico pulled out his phone.

Tex froze. "Don't you dare."

His older brother smirked. "Oh I dare."

"Riiiico, dooooon't."

"I'm doooooing it. It's haaaappening."

"Stooooooop."

"Nooooooooooo."

"No eres demasiado viejo para que te discipline, Ricardo." Spain declared. "Now, stop teasing your hermano."

Puerto Rico looked like he'd taken a big bite of lemon. "It would just be a shirt, it's not like I expect him to wear it."

"But I don't want it!" Tex whined. God, he was just bein' mean! This was why he hated older brothers and made it his mission to not be a sucky one to Al. Without thinking it through, he fell fully into the old pattern and appealed to Spain, "¿Paaaapi?"

"It's alright, Toni," Spain crooned. "Let him make the shirt, then _**I'll**_ make a shirt that says, 'Puerto Rico's Papi,' and Ricky, I'll have your baby portrait and your adult photo side by side. And I will wear this when I come to do business."

Rico was horrified. "That's just...evil. You can't...not when I was-was-"

"Ohhhh yes, you were a chubby baby," Spain stated candidly and then grinned as he mimed the action of pinching cheeks.

Puerto Rico turned bright red and spluttered and then glared at Texas.

Alrighty then, maybe...just maybe...Rico was a teensy bit right and Papi did go kinda easy on him...sometimes.

* * *

Canada spent the morning contemplating what his next move ought to be.

Last night, after Hawaii left—plonking her headset on Mathieu and declaring him "in charge of the operations" since he was their "neighbor to the north" and as such "more closely allied" ...because...geography puns…he'd found himself in the less than eviable spot of giving tips and instructions to Ricardo. They were acknowledged and adhered to less and less steadily as Puerto Rico got more inebriated.

Eventually, anything he said was ignored and Mathieu became increasingly uncomfortable as Rico became less cognizant that he still had a spycam on. And he couldn't hand the headset to Reilley or Alistair because heaven knew what they'd suggest Rico to do next as his inhibitions lowered.

Still, when Texas began outpouring Plains Wars' incidents and his own biggest fears and insecurities, Mathieu got up and turned the television off and pulled plugs out and disconnected and sabotaged all the equipment until no one would be able to set it back up that evening.

Even while Alistor and Reilley booed at him and pelted him with bread rolls and dinner mints.

He didn't care.

They did not have the right to be a part of that.

That was too real, too private…

They weren't consciously chosen to confide in...

And there was something about it that really struck a chord in him.

All of Canada's life he'd struggled with a fear of not measuring up to his father figures and Texas feared succeeding...

There'd also been something terribly upsetting about Puerto Rico's body cam's last glimpses of Alfred.

 _Alfred's eyes were wide and he looked so alone standing at the edge of the parking lot staring after them._

 _He was pale and small and nobody seemed to notice him there under the neon lights...and he didn't speak up._

 _His loudmouthed, brash, 'Look-at-me!' brother was quiet and apart…Mon dieu! They were going to leave him behind!_

 _Panic set in._

 _Alfred, say something! You're one of the loudest people I know! If you want attention, you can get it easy! Call after them, belt out a Broadway hit, do a backflip or something!_

 _But he just stood there, getting smaller as Puerto Rico walked further away._

 _His little brother was going to be forgotten at some seedy bar as a little kid in the dead of night because Texas and Puerto Rico wanted to get drunk and America tagged along...because...Texas was going._

 _Why didn't they see him there? Hawaii? Spain? Somebody?!_

 _He was right there!_

 _He was right—_

 _Somebody see him!_

 _But they didn't._

 _It was going to be up to Mathieu to go get him._

 _His phone was in his hand ready to text Al not to worry, that he was going to come and pick him up when—_

 _Arthur came into view._

 _Somehow Arthur and Antonio had teamed up._

 _Mathieu watched their former caretaker pick Alfred up and felt…_

 _He blinked._

 _Relief..._

 _He felt an incredible amount of relief._

 _And he sat there feeling more like himself than he had in months._

Seeing his little brother all alone in the dark was as bad as seeing him fall under the ice.

Almost worse because in the former he seemed aware of what was happening whereas in his icy plummet it had happened too fast for him to register everything. He'd been more disoriented than...than what?

Hurt?

Sad?

Lonely…

Forgotten…

Apart…

Mathieu hated feeling those things growing up. Had done a lot for his fellow wards not to experience them whether that meant reading books he wasn't particularly interested in or bringing up tea, or taking them out to shops or to concerts or sitting up with them and listening to the bad or to the good that life had dealt them…

Quiet support was enough to show how deeply he cared.

But it won't work now. How could it?

It was too subtle an approach after spending so much time venting his frustrations at them.

If he tried to do small kind gestures...they'd pale in comparison so miserably... If kind gestures remained unseen, silent, and unknown...if sympathies weren't voiced...it was like they didn't happen. Or if they were noticed but they happened too late they seemed disingenuous.

So, what was he to do?

Resign himself to being an outsider looking in, as he had last night? He was angry with himself for not accompanying Puerto Rico. Mathieu was a brother to Tex and America, he should've been there.

Done something.

He thought of his younger brother again and realized...he probably hadn't wanted to go bar hopping at all. But went out of fraternal loyalty…

Mathieu frowned.

If nothing else...if he couldn't have talked Tex down from getting hosed, he could've provided Alfred a way out of the situation. He could've been the "boring, goody-two-shoes" and insisted on Alfred coming home with him...taken the fall as it were.

Because if the night and Alfred's last expression had revealed anything it was that Alfred wasn't very good at speaking up in moments like that.

Being the "lame" voice of reason…wasn't the most glorious job but...it'd be nice to employ it in Alfred's defense; be the "brave one" for a change. It wasn't often Mathieu got to be _**his**_ protector.

More over, he hadn't realized his brother was in genuine need of one until now. Maybe Alfred didn't need the showy battlefield kind...he was skilled in that...but...it was clear he needed someone...

It would require a change in strategy though.

 _Step One: Get the fuck over some of his issues_ …Done. With the worst ones at least. The rest of them could wait because he needed to get on with _Step Two: Apologize._

He called Hawaii to come back to the hotel and drive him over. Belatedly, he added a "S'il vous plaît."

When she waffled about coming over and warned that she'd be taking him into the eye of the storm, he replied that if his family was there then that was where he needed to be.

The answer must've passed inspection because she said: "Be ready in ten."

* * *

Read & Review Please : D


	34. Chapter 34

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia, or John Wayne and his many westerns. Or Shakespeare's Hamlet. Or Milton's Paradise Lost quote: "Which way I flie is Hell" (No, that is not a typo. Original spelling : D because 1660's!) Or the corruption of H.L. Mencken's original quote into the more modern and still hilarious: "Puritanism is the haunting fear that **someone** , **somewhere, is having fun**." Or Tylenol, Mother's Cookies, Hotwheels, Lord of the Rings,

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Benjamin Franklin. Canadian currency and Britain's apron strings. Quick reference to Tim McGraw. The moon does have resources...surprise! (Mining them seems really dangerous though XD)

 **AN:** Finished one history essay on Sunday night and now have to finish a different history one today D: and have a conference about a third, English one, since that one's my Seminar paper. I can make it to May 19th, right? Right? X_X

Enjoy this chapter! Thank you for your reviews and patience! : DD

 **Chapter 34: It's Why I Avoid Karaoke Bars**

* * *

Alfred watched Momilani's car pull up. Considering how she loved driving out and about for anything and everything, he wasn't terribly surprised she'd already gone on some kind of quest before 10 AM (she liked being contradictory, Alfred was never entirely sure if she was a morning or a night person—sometimes she slept til noon, sometimes she was up at the crack of dawn).

She liked explaining her love of the road as a result of the Victorian era where, if she visited Alfred, high society contended that she was supposed to stay in parlors and let the men do the shopping.

Like Alfred ever suggested or enforced it or like she actually did it. Alfred could probably count on one hand how many times she'd actually stayed in a parlor and received guests for him. Most of those only occurred because she was house-sitting for him while he and Tex were abroad and he'd gotten it in signed writing that she wouldn't ignore officials who came to the door.

Alfred usually watched out for his own guests, he was his own angel of the hearth dammit. Cuz it certainly wasn't Texas or anyone else on Team U.S.A.

He frowned down at his feet; they were stinging from burst blisters.

Stupid boots.

Stupid him for wearing them.

Stupid family dysfunction making him have to dress his feet out here on the porch than risk doing so inside and being subjected to a myriad of old man advice on how best to treat them...because Rhys and Antonio could be nosy and bossy.

And he...he had a real big feeling his dad would've overreacted on seeing the superficial injury.

Even when things...weren't good between them, he'd always shown concern for this sort of stuff—tutted over marching fractures and things.

And now...after he'd stressed repeatedly that Alfred needed to exercise care over his spellcasting limbs…

He went and did something dumb and paid for it.

Plus, his old man was...off.

He'd been all wrong all morning.

First, when he was overly flattering to him about his violin skills. Next, when they came to the table and he was careful to only discuss pleasantly safe topics like the weather, without commenting on the previous night. And then, the way he took every opportunity to pat Alfred's head or shoulder...which wasn't too bad except he did it with a hesitancy...like Alfred was made of glass or flower petals.

"What happened to you, baby!?" Momilani demanded.

Alfred jumped and nearly sent the contents of the First Aid kit scattering everywhere.

"Boots I was wearing," he shrugged, looking up and cringing when he saw Canada a half step behind her.

It was sure to get back to Arthur now. Crap.

"I swear, every time I see you, you're all hurt. You need to be careful, hon."

Mathieu sat down beside him and took out some antibacterial from a pocket. He lathered his hands up, shook them so they air dried, and then took up Alfred's cotton swab to doctor the spots.

"I don't need your-"

"You're better at wrapping bandages, I'll leave that part to you. But it'll be easier for me to see and make sure nothing's caught in the skin anywhere so it'll heal up quick and clean."

Couldn't really argue that. Stupid feet being at an odd angle where one can't always just do stuff for one's self. "Fine."

"Hey Al?"

"...yeah?" Al replied begrudgingly.

Mathieu looked him over and winced.

Yeah, yeah, one of 'em was bleeding.

"Wow, they are in bad shape."

"You know it all would've healed in a day or two. It's just skin," Alfred mumbled.

"Well, now it will heal faster, eh? But that's not...what I mean to say is. I'm sorry."

"...not your fault I wore stupid boots."

"Er, no. I mean, about-well, I-I don't like to see you hurt, of course. But I mean about December when-"

"Look, you didn't want to be part of my pirate party. The only one who suffered was you. Cuz it was awesome. Barbados has a great pirate voice. It's a hidden talent-"

"I-I suppose I am sorry to have not been a—wait—what I'm saying—I'm sorry for that awful gift at the gift exchange!"

"...oh...I said what I meant...I don't need a forced apology, so if France or England have been guilt tripping you, forget it. I-"

"It hurt your feelings."

Alfred took out the roll of bandages and began working on his right foot until Momi gently but firmly took it out of his clenched hand. "Maybe I ought to do this."

Mathieu leaned in, trying to get Alfred to face with him without actually reaching out to turn him.

"I'm sorry I hurt your feelings. That I...keep hurting your feelings. I...I've been a real hoser to you lately."

Alfred released a breath through his nose. Because...yeah, he always forgot what that word meant exactly. But he knew it wasn't good since it tended to be yelled at him during hockey games.

So he decided to just agree, "Yeah, you have."

Mathieu sighed, "I'm sorry, Alfred. Can we rewind a bit?"

"I dunno, you've been a hoser for a while," Alfred bit back snidely, deploying his new vocabulary word to its utmost capacity.

Still, it startled him when Mathieu abruptly threw his arms around him. "I'm so glad you weren't eaten by wendigo!"

Alfred stared up at him. What was he…?

"I rewinded to October," Mathieu informed him softly.

Alfred leaned into the hug and mumbled, "...you haven't been a jerk the whooole time."

It was kinda annoying.

Because he knew Mathieu wasn't just trying to look good in front of Arthur, he didn't even know the Briton was nearby. Though from Alfred's vantage point, he could see the old man watching from the screen door with a soft expression.

Alfred couldn't just call his brother out for play-acting his remorse to impress Arthur.

It just wasn't fair.

Mathieu never had to do any real heavy lifting to impress the old goat, Alfred thought bitterly.

Here, America had put a man on the moon and England had shrugged and asked what resources he secured by doing so?

And when the moon hadn't really yielded anything, (because yeah there was stuff present but nobody really gave the green light to start mining) England had scoffed.

All Mathieu had to do was show up to stuff and he and his people earned compliments; it was probably lingering affection over their currency and the fact they still had a soft spot for the monarchy.

When England noticed he'd been spotted by America, he came out and warmly welcomed Canada back.

And the ease there...rankled Alfred.

Arthur's pleasant expression soured when he looked at America. "W-what happened to your feet?"

"...blisters."

"Blast, you were limping last night and I didn't-"

"I'm okay."

Arthur looked to Mathieu for confirmation.

Alfred couldn't help but feel the slight burn of that...that his word wasn't being trusted, not when there was-

"Right one is worse than the left."

"I see."

Mathieu would always be the goody two shoes snitch with excellent timing. Even if the apology was sincere, it was pretty damn lucky he got to do it within earshot of Arthur and Hawaii and…

Alfred sighed when he glanced back over his shoulder.

Rhys too…

The Welshman was on the threshold of the doorframe watching.

Some people got all the breaks.

Still, when Mathieu and the rest of them owned up to spying last night via Puerto Rico, he got some payback. Alfred mustered all the horror he could and gave them a serious look.

"Do _**not**_ tell Tex you were spying on him!" he warned.

"...wouldn't it be better for him to know than to find out suddenly?" Arthur raised a bushy eyebrow.

Mathieu's eyebrows knitted together. "I need to apologize to him too and-"

"I repeat: Do NOT tell him! Or Tornado Tex will-" he broke off and shuddered.

Alfred was pretty pleased with their looks of concern. Even Momilani bit her lip.

Didn't make a convincing Claudius. HA!

* * *

"So you want me to use it as a reason to freak out?" Tex asked, scratching an ear.

Alfred, who was sitting on his brother's dresser, crossed his arms. "Well, yeah. I mean, you said yourself you'd need to have some huge confrontation to throw your family out. And we could use that. Heck, toss out Mattie too while you're at it. Both our families were complicit as far I'm concerned."

"Sure spyin' sucks, but I ain't exactly shy. I been caught doin' much worse than last night—it's why I avoid karaoke bars-" He stared out the window for a moment. "I learned my lesson. But it's not even Papi's fault that it happened, Al."

Alfred frowned.

"I mean I can throw Rico out and rage at Momi, for sure, but…" Tex's gaze lowered before snapping up, "you didn't soften those boots, you earned that." He pointed to Alfred's bandaged feet and tisked.

Alfred wriggled them. "I know."

"Wait a gosh darn minute. I thought you said Mathieu apologized to you today? And meant it, finally. I swear that Canuck was really testing me-"

"I don't like...that he always gets to be the 'good one' and I'm stuck-"

"I LIVE that with you and our government."

"Nuh uh! There is no 'Good Twin, Evil Twin' dynamic for us. We're BOTH the EVIL twin, Bro. _That's_ the twist."

Tex snickered and gave Al a playful shove.

"Well, come on, I guess I can let you bum a lift." He set Alfred onto his shoulders and warned him to duck as they left their bedroom.

They almost immediately ran into Spain.

"Hola boys, soooo Papi and Rico are going out for shopping. Because I for one," he plucked at his shirt. "Am not so fresh anymore."

"Dude, they've been-"

"Wild-westing it," Tex grinned.

Alfred shook his head. "Lord of the Rings style. You get one outfit. Dude, we've got detergent, though. Somebody shoulda spoke up."

Tex's expression dawned with remembrance.

And Alfred's lips pursed...the way they did when Tex left the headlights on, or the stove on, or the fridge door open.

"Yeah, hey, Al, I think the others have the same plan. Rhys was sayin' somethin' earlier...I dunno that monotone he gets sometimes makes me zone out so I can't remember exactly but they were gonna be out and about today and-"

Tex was drawn into a hug by Spain where he was asked softly and seriously, "You will be here? When I get back?"

Wow. That was so direct. He kept a hold on Alfred so his brother didn't fall.

Texas expected a catch and release hug, but Spain lingered, awaiting an answer.

Feeling embarrassed, he nodded and felt a great sigh of relief against his shoulder. The hug tightened and then he was freed.

"Do you need me to bring home anything?" Spain asked.

Home…?

He felt Alfred stiffen at the casual word-drop and his brother's hands, which were near Tex's collar, dug into the shirt.

It was kind of a hypocritical overreaction because the U.K. clan had started using it but…

He didn't really feel like starting a fight over it with Al because Al would assume then that he was on Spain's side and even _he_ wasn't sure if he was okay with Spain saying it.

They could be totally overthinking it; it could just be a linguistic problem or that his dad was too dumb to navigate the ins and outs of "special" words having meanings deeper than what they seem.

Tex was no poet but next to his dad...well, he wasn't fragile and flowery! But he was more...touchy feely... just in comparison! Cuz he had more brain cells to spare for that stuff, and it was safe to bet that Spain had been clubbed in the head more than a few times over the years.

"Um...er...storage boxes and trash bags...uh big ones, gotta start goin' through all this. I always kept...puttin' it off. But...you can't go in, they've got a restraining order on-"

"I send Rico. But!" Spain held up a finger and waggled it, "Not too much today. You are still getting well. I want you to make that your priority, understood?"

The command made him feel like a child.

And to his own embarrassment he answered obediently, "Yes, Papi."

At least he didn't say "Boss."

Spain grinned and squeezed Tex's shoulder. "Bueno."

* * *

Two weeks later, after Alfred and Tex whined about needing fresh air and that they were suffering cabin fever and Tex threatened to binge-watch John Wayne movies at the highest volume their television could produce (so nobody in the household could do paperwork and get caught up on their national duties), both their dads finally lightened up and deemed them healthy.

The whole group tripped down to San Antonio for a new couch, which should've been fun except everybody and their grandma felt entitled to give their two cents. Even Reilley and Alistair had left the sanctuary of the penthouse suite to join them on the hunt and declare which sofa attributes were best.

And it didn't seem to matter how many times Alfred insisted that only Tex's opinion mattered because it was his house and his money, everybody had a stance on it.

Alfred popped two adult Tylenol pills from Rhys's miraculously-over-prepared bag to stave off a headache from snowballing into a migraine. Though it meant having to endure a lecture about what too many could do to his liver if he was overzealous.

Still, it was nice to have Mr. Gray onboard for the adventure. "I always feel like you're trapped in residential areas so I need you to know that you're free to go wherever you want. I can have a car sent to the house special for you."

"That's very kind, Master Alfred, but I don't require that. I want to help you get your residence in order and then I'll need to make my return to Kirkland Manor."

"Right. I'm sorry you got dragged out here."

"I won't hear such apologies. I heard you were in need of my services and I'm glad to help you in times of trouble."

Alfred chewed at his lip. He was too nice to him.

"My times of trouble just keep stretching though. I mean, I've had, like, six months to get a handle on it. I've really dropped the ball."

"...I think you're doing very well considering your circumstances," Mr. Gray replied rather incredulously.

"Yeah, I guess. I just…"

"Now, I've heard you've two other estates in Virginia."

He scratched his neck, "Yeah, there's my home residence which-"

"Doesn't have a staff...to my understanding," Mr. Gray leveled a disapproving look.

"...no...and the other's a fixer-upper."

"Really?"

"No, that's fancy talk for it's a condemned house that I constructed before 1812."

"Ah, so it's a historical renovation project. Plantation style? Or New England? Though it is Virginia so probably not-"

"It's colonial but...since I started the blueprints in the 1770s and the construction by the 1790s and finished up by 1808 there are lots of different details from each of those decades and it was my first real construction project, sooo...not gonna lie...there are some weird architectural flubs. Where you just go, what were you thinking, Al? You can't open both of those doors at the same time. And then whenever the newest, greatest thing came out I added it regardless of if it made sense or not. Still learning how to adult, ya know? So there's a strong sense of Federalist architecture yet I can't say it's fully Regency Era. If that makes sense? I wanted it to look important and a little imposing."

"It's beautiful," Arthur contributed softly, pulling out his cellphone and showing pictures.

"That is lovely. Oh...look at those chandeliers. Must've cost a fortune."

"Indeed, some of them have...well you see like this one,here, in the 1790s the glassworkers had just learned how to taper the glass like this. See, small at the top and then larger ones at the bottom. It's like rain. Beautiful."

Alfred squirmed and shrugged, "She's seen better days. Still has a huge-ass ugly colonial kitchen fireplace."

"Well, your father and I know a good deal of contractors who could help modernize it without losing her antique integrity."

Too nice...it made something in him just...

"-I...what is it, Master Alfred? Are you distressed?"

"No, it's just...you're a lot more like the grandparent I imagined I should have had."

Arthur and his brothers abruptly turned to him with a mix of expressions.

Alfred picked at his sleeves. "You talk so...so nicely to me and you're supportive and yeah, you're old, but you're not boring or bossy. And I've never heard you to talk about bunions."

Alistair gave Reilley a shove because the Irishman was an over-sharer.

"Thank you for such a kind compliment."

"I don't even know if it's a compliment! I just—you're waaaay nicer than Gram Gram was."

"Wot?" Arthur's eyebrows came together.

Alfred blinked. "Oh...yeah, I forgot to tell you. Last time I died-"

Arthur visibly shuddered at the reminder.

Maybe it'd be easier to address this to someone else. "See, Mr. Gray? When I die I go to the Elysian fields. And mine's like a straight up, literal field. I am a dude chillaxing in a field waiting for my Real World avatar to heal up from damage points. And I met Gram Gram there this time."

"You...you met with her?" Reilley murmured.

Immediately, he was crowded by family.

"Eeeyeah."

They demanded a description and seemed fairly satisfied with his answers.

"She was so beautiful."

"Aye."

"Uh, no?"

"I miss her sweet voice."

"We all do."

"Nope."

"You're just young so you don't appreciate-"

Alfred side-eyed Gray. "I think they're remembering someone else and I don't blame them-"

That got him some heated flicks and tugs on the ear until Arthur's arms came around him.

It was weird. Arthur's brothers usually harassed Arthur and Alfred whenever they were separate. Alistair and Reilley usually poked and shoved Arthur at the least provocation since his downgrade from being the British Empire. And Alfred had taken a lot of noogies through the years. And yet...whenever Arthur had Alfred in his arms, all mischief ceased.

"Well, what did she say, pet?"

They were all watching him intently.

"Well, she chased me. Yeah, I mean, I threw an acorn at her first but-"

"Dead man," Reilley whispered.

Alistair nodded.

"She was crowding me! _**My**_ field. And she...Daddy!" he got rather flustered "She-she…"

Arthur nodded.

He lowered his voice, "She _spanked_ me for that acorn. I didn't even really throw it, it was more of an underhand lob. And she gave me a smack..."

Reilley and Alistair snickered.

"Hard."

"Oh…" Arthur murmured.

"Grandma's aren't supposed to do that...it hurt," he stated indignantly.

"I'm sorry, love."

"Her eyes were all wrong. Crabapple green. Fitting. Crabby lady. She said I was spoiled and she's cross with me cuz I make you cry and she forced me onto the path back to, ya know, life and that I was a, and I quote, ' _a_ ' _ **something'**_ _acorn.'_ I know it wasn't flattering!"

"She didn't give any message or anything?" Rhys inquired a bit too casually.

"I dunno. I didn't always understand what she was saying. And she spanked me. I think you're forgetting that part-"

"Well, try to remember," Scotland growled impatiently "What was the last thing she said?"

"Ummmm. Right."

He concentrated harder at their intense looks.

"Here goes. Is too, McGraw."

"What?"

"Wot?"

"The hell?"

"Maybe she's a country fan. That's a redeemable quality," Tex offered.

"I know it!" Reilley cried triumphantly. He cleared his throat, "Is tú mo ghrá."

"That's it! She said that at me. _At_ me. Not _to_ me." He crossed his arms and looked to Arthur for some sympathy.

But he was quiet.

So were Rhys and Reilley.

Scotland rolled his eyes, "Ack, she said she loved you, yeh imp. Impressive, given what you were up to."

"She did? Then why didn't it sound nice? She didn't say it nicely. She said it smug and mean."

"Why does the delivery matter?" Scotland snapped. "She said it, didn't she?"

"Dude, she managed English for most of our interaction. Why didn't she say it in that?"

"She said it. Tha's what matters."

"Ugh! It's genetic. The emotional constipation is genetic. I don't think I've ever heard _you_ say you love me, Uncle Scot. I mean, Rhys has said it. Reilley says it when he's drunk-"

"It takes great strength Alfie-boy to know how to be tough and when to be sensitive. I know time's short, I don't waste what I got. I just need a little liquor to grease the wheels sometimes."

Scotland crossed his arms. "I don't got to say what yeh already know."

"Dad says it."

"O'course your dad says it. He's your dad. I'd wallop him if he didn't say it to you now, you being...wee again. Not that I need to. He can't belt up about it as it is."

Alfred looked up.

Arthur murmured a soft and sincere, "I love you, Sweet."

Alfred looked back at the group and jerked a thumb to indicate Arthur, " _ **That's**_ how you're s'posed to say it. She got it _wrong_."

"Well, you haven't exactly been gushing affection yerself though," Reilley muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

"Because it's genetic! And I know who to blame now!"

"Nuthin' she said was wrong. You _are_ spoiled."

Alfred stuck his tongue. He did not expect it to be pinched between the Scotsman's fingers.

"I warned yeh."

"Alistair! He's a plentyn!"

"O let him go, Alis. Ya know he fantasized her to be the embodiment of the _Mother's Cookies_ brand. I'm sure it was a let-down."

Alfred whined. Holy crap! He did not expect this.

Nor did he understand the low growl of words Arthur emitted at his uncle.

All he knew was his uncle abruptly released him.

Arthur immediately check him over. "You alright? That brute didn't-"

"I'm okay. He did warn me...forever ago...I just...didn't think he meant it." Alfred flexed and clicked his tongue, trying to get it to feel normal again.

He almost wished he had melancholy Arthur back (since their car-side drama he'd been super down) because now Arthur was royally pissed off.

"Mr. Gray," the Briton announced tensely. "You, myself, Mathieu, and Alfred will accompany the Carriedos and Momilani. The rest of you...can _**bugger off**_."

Arthur picked him up and away they went.

* * *

Mathieu noted that his U.K. relatives didn't abide by Arthur's advice per se but they did follow at a very leisurely pace that granted them a safe distance.

Following the Seven Year's War and his movement into British hands, Rhys had easily been the uncle who took the lead in getting him underwing.

The Welshman was quiet, calm, and kind and didn't fault a young Mathieu's slipping into French.

Music and stories were easy ways to spend time together.

He had vague memories of a young Alfred being rather put out about it.

Looking back on the past with older eyes, he felt some sympathy for his brother—Quite suddenly he'd had a better behaved rival (Mathieu was just a different temperament and certain rules were easier for him to manage) for Rhys to compare him to.

Was it then? That he'd started drawing away? From Rhys, from Mathieu? And started gravitating toward...

If he remembered right, it did annoy the man to have to search for the American and scold him for trailing after Alistair...who never seemed exceedingly fond of children.

Tolerated.

Indulged on occasion.

But never truly fond.

When Mathieu was a toddler, the Scotsman had seemed overwhelmingly intimidating and the Canadian dreaded every time they had to search the courtyards for Alfred, knowing the red haired man would likely be there...swinging his very sharp, larger than Alfred-standing-on-Mathieu's-shoulders-when-they-wanted-a-book sword.

Naturally, he outgrew the childish fear; with enough time and better understanding of Arthur and Rhys's Scottish brother, he came to envy Alfred's easy rapport with the warrior.

He didn't envy it now.

The same athletic, Spartan really, relationship that let Alfred box with Alistair let Alistair roughhouse with him whenever the Scotsman felt like it.

Alistair never did that with him and Mathieu found himself feeling grateful even though it meant a lack of closeness.

What was curious though, was Arthur's reaction to it all.

It wasn't new behavior and Arthur seemed to think it was. He was angry with Alistair's "newfound" aggression toward Alfred and very verbal about it.

Yet, as Mathieu racked his memory he couldn't recall Arthur being present for nearly any of those "sparring matches" or playful shoves Mathieu remembered. No, the few rounds Mathieu knew Arthur witnessed, he interrupted.

Right now, Arthur hovered protectively near Alfred like a moose with a calf...ready to charge at any perceived threat.

Alfred's attempts to lessen his anger with quips like, "I don't think he'd really cut it off" and "he was playing. He plays like that," didn't really help.

Alfred eventually gave up or realized the importance of shutting up if he really did want to help Alistair's case.

"Benjamin Franklin…" Alfred murmured, staring up at a neon colored pop-art print of him among a collection of eclectic wall decorations.

Mr. Gray smiled and pounced on the subject, no doubt as eager as Mathieu to ease the tension.

They discussed _Poor Richard's Almanac_ and the ever popular kite story and his intellect and innovation and all the niceties of trivia without mentioning the Revolution.

Surprisingly, Arthur didn't bristle at the Founding Father's name and even contributed a few admirable traits himself.

Alfred nodded. "Yeah, he was all those things. But mostly…"

Canada and Mr. Gray awaited something philosophical or sage to leave Alfred tinged with melancholy and nostalgia…

Arthur tensed, likely preparing himself to meet whatever sorrow such memories would dredge up.

Instead…

Alfred turned to them. "He was a colossal pervert. And he was always trying to get me to come to the Hellfire Club."

Arthur choked.

"He said there was important spy stuff to know and then there was the magic, and he had strong suspicions about me cuz of Salem. But I wasn't into what he was into...nope."

Reilley who'd dared to come closer began sniggering.

Alfred made a face. "Ew, you totally went there and-and did things."

"O the stories I could tell."

Arthur's nostrils flared and he glared.

"But I won't until you're older."

Alfred gave him a sneer, "I need to go over there, where the air's...purer."

"Don't be like that Alfie-boy. Nobody likes a Puritan and their ' _haunting fear that someone, somewhere, is having fun_!'"

"What about this, baby?" Momilani called. "It's got cup holders and there's a recliner on the end?"

"What about this modern one?" Spain asked. "Nice lines, yes?"

"I like leather, you guys."

"But there's that fat cat-"

"Don't body shame him, Rico!" Alfred screeched. "It just means that there's more of him...to love. And Americat is his name."

"Amerifat, got it!"

"You!"

"Anyways, it'll get all scratched."

"What about that one?"

"I don't want modern with flashy metal bits. I will hit my foot against that and crack a toenail."

"TMI, Tex," Puerto Rico grimaced at the thought.

"¿Mijo? Do you want it to be sleeper sofa? Or regular? Or sectional?"

When Alfred took a break from examining fabric samples and was having trouble reaching the drinking fountain in an enclave, Arthur stepped in and lifted him.

"Thanks."

He was set on Arthur's hip and toted around the store. Together with Mathieu, they toured the different furniture pieces.

Mathieu glanced over at the two blonds.

Yes, Alfred was being babied but considering what Arthur had told him when Mathieu demanded answers for Arthur's...depression...there was no other word for the dispirited gloom Arthur was suffering…

The Briton haltingly admitted that Alfred had confessed that...during 1812 Alfred had, honest to God, believed he'd lost his place in their family and all their love and was entirely alone in the world...

That was…

Yes, Mathieu, on a more regular basis than he liked, felt unnoticed or underappreciated but…

From the bits Arthur had relayed to him, it was sounding a lot like his brother had dipped into feeling like a nonentity and as a lot of his dimensions as a person collapsed...he ended up overinvesting in his identity as a nation...and was exploited.

And it made a lot of his previous attention-seeking behaviors painful to reflect on.

A non-person...

He never wanted his brother to feel like that.

His counselor was still urging him to talk to Arthur about his feelings of jealousy and resentment but...he didn't think the Briton could take much more.

Not right now.

A nonentity...

"What do you think of this, Al?" Mathieu asked picking up a large magnifying glass and letting it make his violet eye seem huge.

A smile twisted Alfred's lips.

Yes, they were probably being obnoxiously attentive, but...they wanted him to feel wanted.

Alfred took the glass from him, "See? My tooth is growing in."

Mathieu and Arthur "Ooohed" appreciatively.

For a moment he seemed proud, like a seven year old was supposed to be, and then something like panic flashed over his features, "Will my smile be ruined?" He looked to Arthur for confirmation.

"Wot?"

"I think it's...well, it's not the same as the one it's replacing. It doesn't match the other."

"Well, it's an adult tooth, pet."

"...am I gonna have an ugly, snaggle smile?" He demanded, looking distressed at the thought.

"No, you're going to have an I'm-growing-up-smile." He kissed his cheek.

"You're sure?"

"Quite sure. Very handsome."

It kind of hurt that Alfred could get so worked up over body image.

His little brother's eye was almost back to its normal color.

If Alfred cared that much about a tooth, losing that eye...for a second time…

Mathieu accepted the glass back and when Alfred's fingers lingered on the faux, tusk shaped handle, Arthur offered to buy it.

Alfred laughed him off and assured him that he really didn't need more stuff. The house was crammed full of stuff. Until some of it was gone, he needed to have some self-control.

When the couch was ordered and paid for, Mathieu and Arthur insisted on several trips through different toy stores because Alfred wouldn't just let Arthur buy something for him.

They were in a Hotwheels aisle when Alfred turned around, planted his feet, put one hand on his hip, and used the other hand to point.

"Look, don't take it all so-so-so, I dunno, personally? What happened back then was mostly my fault, I had unrealistic expectations about fath-"

Green eyes flashed warningly.

And he didn't dare finish that sentence.

Because it was looking like whatever "unrealistic expectations" a younger Alfred had placed on the idea of a father, were nothing compared to what said father expected of himself.

They were both hurting. And they were both trying to deal with it in their own way.

It was becoming clearer that Al's way was by pretending the hurt didn't exist. And Arthur…

Well...

Arthur was a materialistic person, however he was also fiercely private, a poor communicator and very sentimental.

Often, purchasing things was the language he preferred in expressing himself.

Mathieu had long figured that out and had learned to accept or ask for things when Arthur wanted to apologize or treat him or his other wards.

He felt something in him hurt when Arthur asked desperately if there wasn't anything, anything at all in the whole store that Alfred wanted?!

Alfred's brows creased as he deliberated and then he asked to be carried.

Which was a...a kind option.

He seemed to sense Arthur's guilt and affection and didn't want to exploit it.

Still, neither Alfred or Mathieu expected the request to be taken so seriously.

For the next three hours, Alfred's feet didn't touch the ground. It would've gone on longer but Alfred asked to be set down.

It was the look of hurt on Arthur's face at hearing the new request, that they both realized Arthur might have carried him for the entirety of the day.

Alfred instinctively looked to Mathieu for some kind of inspiration.

Mathieu took up his nearer hand.

Alfred immediately grabbed Arthur's, "I wanna hold hands now. Help me do that swing jump thing."

They obliged.

* * *

That night Alfred kicked off his shoes and grabbed an armful of laundry; Tex was hoarding towels again and there were just too many people boarding with them for that to be okay.

He approached the laundry room and found Arthur there...watched the man lean against a wall and slide down to rest in a heap on the tiled floor—shoulders shaking.

He knew that posture.

Had slumped against walls much the same way when he'd been reorienting himself to a new reality following their second war.

Alfred leaned against the door and made it creak loudly.

Arthur greeted him with a forced lightness...lately, he'd been trying to keep a smile on his face in his interactions with Alfred.

'Cept he wasn't any good at it and it often slid off like a cheap magnet on a board.

It took real practice to look pleasant; it helped when your livelihood depended on it.

Still, Arthur tried to make conversation, "Shirt I bought. Have to wash it before wearing, you know? On the tag."

Alfred nodded.

He wasn't sure how to feel.

Wasn't it good? That Arthur felt this bad? For this long? Two weeks since Alfred had vented at him and even though he knew from eavesdropping on him and Rhys that Rhys was coaching him to shield for the sake of their bond...Alfred knew Arthur was miserable.

Depressed.

Desperate to make amends.

Wasn't it nice that he could make demands and Arthur would scramble to fulfil them?

Like he was some kind of demi-god deserving of tribute?

Would have carried him all day if he'd allowed it. He knew it.

Wasn't it nice to know Father was willing to do that even though it indulged and acknowledged a weakness in Alfred...to want that childish comfort? To hear soft heartbeats and voice rumblings and have strong arms hold him like he was something special?

To pretend that he was the only precious person in his father's life as he'd mistakenly believed in their earliest years together?

It also dredged up a really nasty part of him that he'd thought he'd shook loose by the mid-1800s by befriending Tex and becoming a better all around guy. Because it was one thing to lose something, another to accept it, and something greater to move on.

There was still some jerkass in him way deep down. And he couldn't blame it on the hex.

He'd never really had power like this over his parent.

It didn't really make him feel good or happy but he wasn't as sickened and ashamed with himself as he ought to be. As he would have been if the hex was still on him...holding him to a higher standard of heroism.

It made him feel low. It made him...more honest...

"I dunno how to feel seeing you like this."

"..." No doubt the Briton was alarmed by the bluntness.

"I mean, part of me's glad."

There was a flinch of hurt.

Alfred looked away and tapped his fingers against the door frame. "It's off my chest...finally. You don't know what it's like…carrying it and...no matter ' _which way I flie is Hell.'_ "

Arthur swallowed. "Must've been painful. Difficult. Horrible."

"Yes, and now..." Alfred hovered from one foot to the other. He'd noticed he could do it a while back when he didn't want to put pressure on his healing feet.

He did a spinning fouette on the very tips of his toes and added a leap that stayed suspended in air longer than what gravity should've allowed.

He looked at Arthur. "Weird, huh?" He did another impossible jump and perched lightly on the washer and then hopped down on one foot on Arthur's right knee without allowing his weight to settle. "It's easy now." He realized belatedly that it was kinda rude especially given the situation they were in, he gave a sheepish "Sorry" and jumped off.

He was surprised when Arthur snatched him out of the air and in a low, gruff tone muttered, "You don't need to apologize for finally feeling better."

Alfred stared because...more or less...that was at the bottom of it. He felt better.

 _ **He**_ felt better.

And Arthur felt worse.

"But it hurts you to see me right now." He could sense it. A chord of pain went through his father every time he was in view.

But if he tried to avoid him and spare him, the man sought him out.

"Nonsense."

"It does."

"Never. You bring me joy."

Alfred gave him a skeptical look. "I do not want your affection if it's to be blended with some form of penance. If seeing me makes you sad-"

" _Never_." He brushed fringe out of Alfred's face. "I'm glad you're not weighed down anymore."

"...but you're having to carry it now."

He watched those pained, bloodshot green eyes and Alfred alternated between feeling guilty and vindicated and guilty again and glad.

Childishly glad to shove off what oppressed him so long and leave his father to make sense of it, as he'd done so often in his colonial days whenever something in his lesson was too complicated and frustrated him or if a favored toy was broken and he felt full confidence leaving it on Father's desk to deal with and fix.

"Foisting it on you, doesn't seem very heroic." It was a cop out and he knew it. Like a fairy tale or ghost story that required leaving someone else in your sucky spot for you to be free.

"Foisting? No, you weren't foisting…" Arthur frowned. "You were telling me about something I did that hurt you, terribly. You were being honest with me. It's good. It's what I want. How can you trust me if you remember those horrible things each time I make a promise?"

Alfred shifted a bit uneasily. Because...yeah...1812 was kinda his go-to trauma for reasons on why he shouldn't rely too much on anybody.

"But you have to carry it now," he repeated. Surely, the inequity of their positions was obvious?

"Yes." But there was a sudden determination in the agreement and Alfred looked up, startled.

That didn't sound like someone who was defeated.

Arthur gathered him carefully and stood up. He had to wrap his arms around his parent's neck to keep himself balanced.

There was a blend of admiration and envy in him at seeing it happen so suddenly.

The fact that he could FEEL that transformation. That grasping of resilience, that embrace of strength, and that calming permeation of acceptance.

And he just...Alfred's cheeks puffed; it took him centuries and Arthur...what? a fortnight?

And it didn't feel like killing-frost on a spring field, but like gentle rolling waters warmed by sunshine.

"You're bouncing back faster than I did," he admitted sullenly.

Arthur laughed lightly. "Of course I am. I'm cheating. Hard to be lost in darkness when I have a guiding star leading me out." He looked at him gently and this time without sadness.

Giving him the credit…

That was unexpected. And he couldn't write it off as Arthur being patronizing and indulgent. And he wanted to...they were heading into uncharted territory again...going off script...

"...t-that so?"

"O yes."

"It's...it's just...you're just doing it quite fast."

"Well, you need me, don't you? That's why you're here."

That's what it came down to, wasn't it?

There was something very earnest, very vulnerable in that question.

He'd gotten so used to dismissing such things. Persuading himself away from such weaknesses. He didn't need him. That was the well worn lie. He could say he was just here for the appliances. For the towels. But he'd left those outside the room. He'd come in because…

No...

He didn't need anyone's protection...anyone's love...except maybe Tex's and only because he'd proved he was trustworthy and impossible to be rid of. It was safer that way. He'd never need fear what people would expect in return for their affection.

But that...wasn't what was being said here, was it?

Alfred rested his face against Arthur's shoulder because his eyes had started to burn.

He wasn't saying Alfred was weak. That would be easier to deal with. To get angry at and denounce.

No…

He was saying…

He was an inspiration for strength. In a good way...a way that wasn't retaliatory…

A way that meant…

 _"I'm your father, what else do you need to know me as?"_

"Dude! You were a person before-"

"But I'm a better person now!"

...he loved him very much...

Was it so wrong to need and be needed? If it meant he could be part of something good like that?

This was where he usually ruined the mood. Said something offbeat that returned them to normalcy.

He took a deep breath and broke several centuries of carefully crafted protocol to nod in answer to Arthur.

He was held close.

It should've been enough. That nod cost him a lot. He didn't need to do more.

And yet…

"Yeah...y-yes...F-father…" Alfred tightened his hold "...I need you."

Because no one outgrew needing a hero.

* * *

Read & Review Please : D


	35. Chapter 35

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or Snake-A-way. Or Applebee's. Or Nascar. Or FIFA. Or Hooked on Phonics.

 **Warning:** Some profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). FIFA. Multi-Family drama. Some feels. Some fluff. Some squabbling.

 **AN:** Look who managed to finish a chap between all the insanity of my semester's wrap-up? Thank you for your reviews and your patience. One. Week. Left. I'm still four essays away from freedom D: Gah! But enjoy this! XD

 **Chapter 35:** **Nobody Escapes the Spanish Fam-ada**

* * *

Arthur stared up at the pinks, golds, and purples of dusk from his spot on a blanket—having shaken enough Snake-A-way repellent pellets in a wide enough, dense enough, radius that he felt confident enough to recline here and assured that his offspring was equally safe a few paces away. The soft whispering of grasses by his ears and his child humming as he approached felt surreal after two weeks of abject misery.

This...calm…he scarcely dreamed of attaining a calmness like this.

Especially after...

It was only a glimpse…

What Alfred had shared in the car…

Only a glimpse in a moment of temper and hurt and yet…

Arthur had always been blessed with an obstinate, begrudging nature that he realized now made him resistant to real despair even in his most vulnerable and fragile states of mind—maybe it was his sense of spite, his mercurial moods, his quick frustrations, his need for vengeance to address wrongs and hurts of degrees...that he was ever keeping score of those sorts of things…that kept him going in moments of trouble.

He'd mourned deeply when Mother died and cursed the Romans to the best of his young ability. Had raged and cried and felt utterly discontented with his lot in life but he'd plotted constantly while he was their prisoner.

Had visited Elizabeth's grave more times than he cared to count as he lamented her passing and made his plans on how best to continue her legacy and take their nation to new and glorious heights.

Had despised barbed wire and bombings and cried for all the lives lost under bricks and in gutters...and worked to help rescue whoever he could find...

When he'd thought Alfred dead on that operating table, grief like he'd never known in his life seized him with such a weight he thought he'd be crushed into nothingness.

Yet, it still wasn't despair.

He knew sadness.

He knew loss.

God, did he know regret.

But...

Despair was something else.

A betrayal of such magnitude...

Like the world itself was chipping away underneath his shoes and flaking from beyond his fingertips.

Often he'd heard people describe such feelings in movies and plays as falling…

That wasn't how Alfred had experienced it at all.

It was like being forcibly unmade...every fiber and sinew unwoven, drenched in kerosene and set alight, and even the blaze never disturbed, never lightened even a degree of that smothering darkness.

There was no freedom there.

The darkness bled into everything.

 _"How could you_ _ **leave me**_ _?!"_

 _How could you leave me...there…?_

 _In that_ …?

He'd had nightmares about it since.

Him...a grown man who'd never even experienced the full brunt of it or the side of an estrangement that seemed to confirm all the most terrible fears one could harbor about family…

In his heart of hearts, Arthur had never doubted his child's love. He'd been at war with the boy's pride...and his own…

And Alfred had been battling something far more sinister.

Maybe that was the horror of it all. The monstrous, cruel unfairness…

That he was the adult...the father...and Alfred was the child…

And the Cosmos didn't single him out for punishment on their behalf.

It just wasn't fair.

 _"I tried! You weren't there! You weren't there!"_

And he couldn't change it.

The worst part was knowing full well that under all that suffering...Alfred had still loved him.

That was a marvel.

And it made him understand Blue better. Because...from that angle...yes, from that one...he was something truly awful, plague-like, irredeemable, heartless…

" _I just thought you didn't love me anymore…"_

The world as Alfred had known it...ended…and he struggled through the debris of his former hopes and expectations.

He still came...to meetings and trade negotiations...to ballrooms he hated…

And he laughed and was laughed at and smiled and made jokes and blithely ignored, or seemed to ignore, Arthur's barbs.

And love was muddied with distrust and disappointment as Arthur's clay feet and personal pettiness undermined any efforts he did undertake to bridge the gap between them...

Even though the events and the fullness of the despair had been blocked out by the hex (which was slowly seeming like a cure-all Alfred had applied to himself in an understandable moment of desperation and vulnerability), the aftermath...the skittishness had remained...Blue remembered the circumstances even if the rest of Alfred's conscience was locked out of the loop.

" _I was always the one that knew better. I knew from the start you were a liar."_

Red remembered the disillusion and the pain...and he seemed to be floating nearer and nearer to the surface all the time.

 _"You weren't there, anymore! You weren't there, Daddy!"_

He wasn't there, not the way he needed to be.

The boy was right.

And the fact that he...that he had...tried to...to...come home…

Arthur braced himself with a breath; he'd fucked up. Royally.

What he'd construed as the boy coming to him to gloat was actually him trying to reconnect…

Such an idiot...all it would've taken was one afternoon where he kept his mouth shut and listened.

If that was the case...then America had been rejected multiple times...before...before…giving up.

A headshot and a hex convinced him to move on...though he dragged the past behind him.

And it weighed him down.

 _Needed him_.

To shoulder it now.

The sun lit the edges of clouds as it sank.

He'd always tried to assure himself that he was needed. This past year he'd done nothing but try to prove he was needed...that he could still fit into his son's life. That his affection and concern and attention had worth...could be put to use.

But somehow hearing it aloud…

It wasn't simply, "I need you," that he'd heard...

No…

In it was...

" _I love you...still…"_

And that kind of forgiveness...steadfastness…love…

And the admittance that carrying all of their past had made him tired and he needed someone strong…

Of course Arthur was strong enough to do it.

When he'd had so much of a hand in it…

When it meant his son could let go.

Alfred sat down beside him with an armful of flowers and then deemed himself too far away and wriggled over until he was leaning against his father.

He watched small fingers twisting the stems and linking them together, braiding spaces between the flowers with long meadow grasses.

Of course he was strong enough.

Arthur stroked the wheat hair, glinting in the sunset, and tucked some of that fringe behind a soft ear.

Alfred settled his weight more firmly against him.

His strength was meant to be relied on this way...trusted in…

Alfred was still learning about strength. He recognized it most easily in its brutish forms—showy displays of might. He didn't see it in spiritual resilience, in kindness, in affection, in peacemaking. He didn't perceive it when someone identified their limits and asked for assistance.

And the most criminal of all...he didn't understand how integral, how deeply ingrained it was in forgiveness.

When Alfred finished his floral labor, he carefully set it on Arthur's brow.

And the Briton fought against a lump in his throat.

He'd known circlets like these for millennia and yet being crowned by those hands…

Ones that had bestowed flowers on him so generously in centuries past...that he'd stopped seeing them as gifts but as tribute…

He'd stopped deserving them...and they stopped coming…

Arthur sat up halfway, resting on his elbows and shared stories about woods Alfred would never know. Woods whose absence he'd thought he'd accepted...and grieved anew because—

Blue eyes met his unsurely.

"Oh pet, I wish I could take you there, but...those trees...are gone now."

"Oh," the boy didn't quite understand, though he sensed through their bond that he was just starting to.

He knew plenty about loss.

More than Arthur could ever want him to.

But he didn't quite feel time as heavily as England did.

He'd had enough to deal with without marking passages of time.

"Do you miss it?" the child asked, blue eyes watching.

It's an obvious statement, but he knows the boy isn't trying to be flippant. His expression is too open; a dry reply that would mask Arthur's feelings would do injury to his.

"Sometimes."

Alfred snuggled closer with instinctive compassion.

And it was the most bittersweet feeling that filled him.

Because he did. At times. The simplicity. The magic that pulsated between realms so freely. The way life made sense to him in his youth. With his exuberant certainty and enviable overconfidence…

So much was gone. Felled. Paved over. Forgotten. So much had passed and was finished and there could be no return.

And even so…

Even though a younger version of himself would likely berate him for his present caution, his current domesticity, the loss of his Round Table, the sunset on his dreams for empires grander than Rome's...

And sometimes that smarted.

To be "old," experienced, worn...

But he knew he wouldn't trade this meadow, this moment, for that forest. For that time. Ever. Not when—

Little fingers unabashedly reached back over to adjust the flower crown on Arthur's head. All the child personifications he'd cared for in empires past...

Arthur laid back down.

Far too steep a price. There was doom in just the whisper of it. Morgana would've laughed at how he flinched..he turned away to hide his expression until the shiver through his soul passed.

Little cheeks puffed, "Hey...you're mussing it up, I worked-"

He looked back on Alfred and gripped the child under the arms and lifted him up into the air and the boy laughed with startled delight.

Arthur gave him a teasing shake and swayed him from side to side—earning more laughter.

He lowered him close and then raised him back up. He did this several times before setting the child on his chest and wrapping his arms around him and planting a comical kiss on the child's cheek as the little one wriggled half-heartedly to be freed.

Whenever Alfred did "get loose," he was rather easily and immediately re-captured and this went on until Arthur tickled the child breathless and he collapsed on top of Arthur's chest.

"Ooomphf," Arthur winced at receiving his child's weight like that. Still, the rather sweet hug he got after more than made up for it.

Alfred sighed contentedly, "I can hear your heart."

"Oho?"

There was a nod. "When I was a ba-smaller and younger and you fell asleep before I did, I'd count the beats until I couldn't count that high...I...I can count a lot higher now though...of course."

"Of course. You're very smart. Very talented at maths." He dropped a kiss on the golden head.

Alfred looked up, looking a bit disoriented at the compliment...and that was wounding.

He knew now he'd praised the child's looks far too often during their years together. So much had been focused on appearance that whenever his was damaged, the blow to his ego was devastating. And he had other fine attributes.

Arthur continued, "All those mathematicians and scientists and engineer and doctors I scheduled to meet with you…they all told me what a bright young man you are."

"What did you say?"

"I'd say, 'Of course he is, why the devil did you think I asked you here?'"

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did," England insisted. "Such an uppity lot. Thinking _they_ were doing _you_ a favor. They were all like that initially, you know. And by the end _they_ were thanking _me_ for introducing them to _you_."

"Nuh-uh."

"All true."

"Then why'd you never tell me that stuff before?"

Arthur laughed a bit ruefully. "I think I was afraid you'd ask what they thought of me. Many of my reviews weren't quite so glowing."

Alfred sighed and didn't look at him. "...you're good at words...languages...I barely remember any Oneida. English was easier. Or maybe it was because your people talked to me more."

Arthur nodded.

"You talked to me way more than Osha did. It seemed like you were always talking. I remember being surprised by that when I first met you."

Arthur tried not to take it that Alfred was calling him a chatterbox. Though he knew it was true.

Still, it surprised him how much...easier it was...hearing about Osha now.

He knew he was needed…

Wasn't going to be cast aside or have his place usurped...

Granted, he still hated her with a passion that would likely last for eternity but...she wasn't as threatening a figure anymore.

How much of that was the direct result of Arthur overcoming his insecurities laid to rest or Alfred being more critical of her (proving that the Stockholm Syndrome he'd been under was ebbing), was difficult to say.

"You taught me rhymes and songs. And you'd read aloud stories and plays and poems and recipes and you were always asking me things. That was all new and different. Osha told me things. She decided what and when I learned things. She didn't like questions. You just had to accept. Information was a treasure meant for the elders to hold. They dispersed it when they wanted to. She never asked me anything. Cuz I was young and couldn't know anything. She liked it when I was quiet and obedient. She didn't like _Greensleeves_. Said I was noisy and that I sang songs of lands that weren't mine….that was bad. That made her and Sky Mother sad."

Arthur frowned.

"And you kept information right there in your books on shelves. And I could read them whenever I wanted, granted I could figure out what the new words I came across meant."

"Different cultures," Arthur answered softly. Though...if he could do things over he might've taken more care over which books had lined those shelves.

"Yeah. The shuffle back and forth was hard. I mean, I...I couldn't do this with her."

"Do what? Talk?"

"Yeah, and...ya know," He gave Arthur a hug as a demonstration. "She was never real big on PDA. But then again…"

That hurt to hear, because a toddler aged America had been terribly affectionate…

No…

Alfred was still very affectionate. Just more guarded.

He gave the boy a squeeze and immediately received one back.

"I mean, she loves me…"

Arthur let that alone; he still had very strong feelings regarding that statement...but he knew to leave it be. For now.

"But..."

Arthur waited on tenterhooks.

"She was always pretty upfront that she thought I was oooogly."

Arthur's lips pursed and his body tensed.

"It's kinda funny cuz I remember now..." he laughed a little "One time I really let her have it. And I just went up and down about how beautiful you thought I was. She thought we were both-" he laughed again.

Arthur held him tightly.

"S'okay. It wasn't so bad when I saw others like me. Europeans...European nations. You thought my eyes were great. I wish I'd known about Mattie and Tex...I just didn't."

He rubbed circles into the child's back.

"But you think I'm handsome?"

"I think you're selling yourself woefully short if looks-"

"You do, right?" There was an edge of expectation and desperation in the tone. Osha had hurt him there.

"You're more than your face, but it is a handsome one to be sure." This was something that had to be carefully unknotted.

Satisfied with the answer, Alfred tapped at his breast pocket,"What's in there?"

Arthur obliged and pulled out the portrait miniature he'd reclaimed from Alfred's snowman supplies.

"You...you're...you're wearing it again?"

"Naturally," he gave it and then its real-life counterpart a kiss before tucking the beloved trinket back into its pocket and buttoning it to keep it safe.

Alfred blinked, "But it's so old."

Arthur hmmed at that, "Yes, I do need a proper wallet photo of you. But you've been so camera shy as of late, it's been difficult."

Alfred pondered over that, "Does it have to be me now? It can't be older me?"

"I could take one of each," he conceded.

"I just...I don't want you to forget how tough I am...even if I look different now."

"You're very strong. I know that. Right here," He tapped the boy's chest, indicating his heart "hasn't changed. My lionhearted lad."

Alfred, who'd been poised to argue the point, settled back down and accepted another cuddle.

The sky was darkening into the indigo of night.

He turned when he heard footsteps approach and smiled at Mathieu. "Look who's come to join us, Sweet?"

Alfred turned his head to see.

It was the abrupt lack of feeling between them that alarmed the Briton.

He distractedly welcomed his other child who hesitantly sat down on the corner of the blanket.

Arthur glanced down at the little one in his arms.

There was nothing sour in the cherubic face at it looked over at the Canadian. There was nothing off in his voice as he greeted the other.

And yet…

Their bond should not have-have...shorted out? It was nothing compared to a-a death, thank God, but...it was like a cord had been tied around a limb in such a tourniquet…

It was bloody unbearable.

He stroked fringe away from the boy's face and asked concernedly, "Are you alright?"

"Yes."

"Alfie…" Was the loss from Arthur's end? Was he blocking without meaning to? He was still a novice at it. Rhys had shared some techniques the previous week but it had never interfered with his sensing Alfred.

"What?"

"..." No, it couldn't be from his side. He kept reaching out. The child was recoiling. "Dearheart?"

"I'm fine," Alfred chirped.

But he pushed away from Arthur then and left them both for more flower gathering.

"But it's dark now," Arthur declared after him. "There's tomorrow. We'll continue this tomorrow. We can all have a picnic."

He didn't receive an answer and he tried not to panic when Alfred ducked down into the grasses.

And out of visibility and without their bond to send him assurance, it was like he vanished.

* * *

Scotland cursed under his breath as he slammed the nondescript black van's door shut and squinted in the sharp sunlight of the afternoon.

"Aye," Eire agreed, as he slung a small satchel with what few clothes they'd bought themselves in the meanwhile. "The gravy train has ended at last."

They both heaved another, deeper sigh.

After getting to live the high life in a penthouse suite for several weeks, government officials finally forced them out and dropped them off in front of Tex's driveway.

Arthur and Rhys were on the porch drinking tea on a porch swing that hadn't been there the last time they visited.

When Alistair gestured to it, Rhys answered, "Storage shed."

"God almighty, they have so much sh-"

"Shh!" Arthur growled, setting his tea down on a side table. "Can't you see he's sleeping?"

Alistair blinked and looked down to his nephew who was draped over their laps, costumed in the heavy cloak Arthur had given the boy last Yule...which was impressive given the heat.

Alistair watched his younger brother stroke strands of golden hair, hand hovering near the ear in case he needed to cover it.

"Arthur, he's heard far worse from me on the battlefront."

Arthur frowned, "Well, he was an enlisted teenager then. Does he look like one now?"

"..."

"Soooo, you get the feet?" Reilley observed, looking at Rhys.

"And you get nothing," the Welshman quipped.

"...Alfie boy, just didn't know to expect me...you haven't surpassed me yet. I treated him to lots of meals and trinkets and nice hotel rooms on the frontier. He remembers."

"..."

"You just wait."

"..."

"I survived the golf buggy ride of DOOM with him at the helm! Sweet Mary of-"

Alistair rolled his eyes; they were welcome to fight over second place. He kept on walking and made his way through the house.

He was surprised to find so much of the mess had been cleared out. There were still boxes here and there but…

He looked around with a more scrutinizing eye.

There were photos and paintings and decorations nailed on the walls.

Tables had runners. Counters and mantels and shelves had actual art pieces rather than plastic figurines.

From the living room, Spain called softly, "Oh, Escocia, you two finally bothered to come back, hmm? Trying to avoid the cleaning and lifting, huh? Well, we still have a few trips to the dump left, mi amigo. I tell them you volunteer."

He looked over to where Spain had both arms stretched over the back of the new couch which not so incidentally allowed him to have both sons within his wingspan with Puerto Rico on the right and Texas on the left and from the sounds of the telly, football was on.

Alistair subconsciously moved closer.

Tex seemed less than enthralled with the match though; his eyelids kept sliding down. He kept groggily asking questions about the rules which Spain diligently answered...even when they repeated.

"Shut up!" Puerto Rico hissed and Scotland agreed. He needed to belt up.

Tex blinked and yawned, looked blearily up at Scotland's sour expression, then over at Spain's longsuffering one, and realized belatedly, "I...I already asked this stuff, huh?"'

"You are tired," Spain shrugged, he moved his arm to drape it over the boy's shoulders who yawned but didn't shake him off. Spain looked pleased as he gently reeled the lad in, under the guise of softly repeating the rules of the game again. Tex ended up assisting him—leaning in to better hear and when Spain realized that...he capitalized on it and lowered his voice more. Texas soon dozed off against his shoulder and Spain gently removed the boy's hat and tossed it with a spin on the table, probably so it wouldn't press into him anymore.

"He'd learn the rules if he stayed awake," Ricardo remarked flatly, reaching over to poke him.

"Rico," Spain scolded under his breath, lest his younger son be disturbed.

His older one pouted, "There was a deal. We watch Nascar with him, he has to watch football with us. He's not holding his end of the bargain. He got what he wanted already-"

"Rico."

"He put me in the scary taxidermy bedroom!"

Spain sighed.

"Family," Alistair summed up, but Spain didn't seem to share his sentiments on the matter and gave him a withering look.

Alistair didn't press his luck and moved on; being a Scotsman and loving a good fight he'd had plenty of skirmishes with all sorts of nations sometimes on behalf of others. He'd battled with the Spaniard before.

England had lucked out in the grocery store to fight the other man as he did.

The man was shite at fistfighting but if he'd had his axe...or a sword or spear...

That would've left a far more gruesome cleanup in the aisle.

And there were some semi-ornamental swords decorating this room now...

* * *

Texas had to admit there was somethin' not quite right about a man that volunteers for a taxidermy infested room.

Puerto Rico had been overjoyed to relinquish the space to the Scotsman and before Tex could assign him the bedroom with the creepy bush that scratched the window late at night, Spain had already invited him into the room he was staying in—ending Tex's hijinks and giving him a look that dared him to try and intervene.

Which...nope...he knew how to choose his battles. Hawaii had already gotten on him twice for giving Puerto Rico this room.

" _Baby, if you're trying to reconcile...this isn't the way to do it."_

 _Tex had frowned back, "You don't understand how brothers work."_

 _She put a hand on her hip in a sassy 'Oh really?' stance._

" _Brothers...like him...they sit on your head when you're small and have outargued them with logic and they just want to be mean. When you go swimming, they take your clothes. I learned to ride rough horses because Rico always liked the tame ones Papi brought me and when you're a snitch and tell Papi then! Then the whole family gangs up on you. And that's never...you never wanna deal with...can't trust nuthin'...And-and-and when you grow up, they stiff you with the bill and tell pretty girls embarrassing stories about you...which they're responsible for! He earned that taxidermy!"_

Sure, there were a few bona fide hunting trophies in there but a majority were purchases he'd made from struggling families back in the day...and they were pretty creepy.

He scuffed a boot on the ground, uncertainly, "I can move some o' this out..."

Scotland glared. "Don't yeh dare, else one o' them idgits I call kin will invite themselves in."

Okay, so there was a strategy involved. Apparently, Scotland wanted it because nobody would disturb him.

Tex stared at a beaver with its open mouth and yellowed teeth.

He left the Scotsman to settle and walked around the house—reminding himself through a headcount how much meat he'd need to set out for a barbecue; it was still kinda weird having so many people at his place at once.

Since he'd moved the flatscreen into the den to better accommodate his guests, their video game hot spot was now a parlor again. He'd set Alfred's oval picture in there as the new commanding centerpiece on, what them interior decorators called, the feature wall.

Arthur had some kind of magnetic fascination with it. He often caught the Brit staring at it.

Like he was now.

"It's a good one," Tex agreed, pleased someone else also appreciated it. Usually, folks commented that it was an _unusual_ expression on his little brother's face.

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

He leaned against the wall. "I remember saving up for it. And I had to plan it just right. Oh, Al was so mad. Madder than a puffed toad. That there were a million other things the money would've been better spent on...but nope. It was _**my**_ money and that's what I wanted."

He smiled up at the portrait.

"It was plum luck, he ended up smiling. I mean, you remember how long photos back then used to take? And then there was the fact that he wasn't exactly thrilled to be doing it and he wasn't a really…"

"..." Arthur looked at him expectantly.

"Well...he wasn't a really smiley person...then…"

Arthur frowned.

"Yeah, he smiled a lot but...that there was a real smile and I got it on film! And-and-w-well you don't know it...how could you but…" He pointed at Alfred's eyes in the photo and gestured to where they'd been focused. He grinned. "He was looking at me."

* * *

Alfred took a deep breath, they were out for a night at AppleBee's.

He didn't rebel against the booster seat on the ride over or the kiddie menu and crayons that were placed before him at the restaurant.

It was supposed to be the right set up. A celebratory meal for all the help their families had given in straightening out Tex's house, and boy had everyone sorted through a lot of stuff since Tex and Alfred's main method of storage was: keep everything, we'll sort it out...someday.

It was weird watching curators peruse their castoffs and pay top dollar for them.

And how Spain and the U.K. clan watched those people like hawks and allowed no swindling. Wales and Northern Ireland seemed to be born appraisers and knew the price ranges of everything, which they'd whisper in Scotland's ear because he genuinely enjoyed haggling. And whenever they were lowballed, England sneered and Spain cheerfully bid them goodbye because the other bidders would be there soon...even when no one else was scheduled...or at least until England made more calls and drummed up interest.

It was awkward asking them if they could...maybe help him with that stuff again in his other estates. You know, until he got the hang of it. Because...this wasn't like a garage sale...where you were just trying to get rid of stuff...this was more...business-like.

It was also kinda hard bagging up stuff that was deemed straight up garbage; " _Alfie boy, these are old, rough hewn shelves to a cabin you admit doesn't exist anymore...and that ya never particularly liked them. And they're rotting and cracked. Can't we let them go?"_

Dad wanted to help him sort and file all their papers (they'd managed to gather all of them into eight plastic storage bins and they were hodgepodge of official business, letters, newspapers, and sometimes advertisements.)

" _Love, you'd be surprised what vintage advertisements sell for,"_ Arthur had remarked as he looked over an old shoe polish ad from the 1800s.

After a heavy spread of appetizers and two rounds of beer which worked for making his family more mellow and margaritas which made Tex's family more cheerful, America announced their plans and tried to avoid Hawaii's suspicious glances his way. She'd been pretty quiet lately...which was dangerous. It meant she was biding her time….plotting. He just needed to skirt around her for a little while longer.

"Soooo...we've got our May Day trip planned." There were cheers at that and Alfred smiled and continued with, "And Tex and I decided we wanna leave a bit earlier for it. Just the two of us. Ya know? For our bro-bond. And then we can get down there and set stuff up for when you arrive."

"It's been ages since we had a good ol' fashioned Americana road trip," Tex recited. They'd written out a short script to get the gist of their plan down before they put it in action. The delivery was a little wooden but he flashed a grin to Al—pleased that he'd remembered his line word for word.

He gave him a nod of approval because it usually took Tex a day to memorize things and he'd only had two hours before show time.

But seriously, time was moving against them if they were going to figure out where the gate was, have a brotherly adventure, and then enjoy a family camping trip (which would probably be a high-stress, culture-clashing event).

Tex's smile was worth it though, they really did need a little breathing room. Considering all the drama, Alfred and his dad could probably use a little time apart—Arthur had to be exhausted. Plus, it was clear Canada wanted bonding time with the old man and (tired of being shown up beside the goody two shoes) it would be easier for Alfred to be absent for it.

Not to mention...

He could better understand Tex's side now when he'd voiced his concerns about Alfred sinking into the U.K. clan. It was hella weird walking into a room where a rapid-fire Spanish conversation was underway between Spain, Puerto Rico, and Tex...and Tex was laughing at a joke Alfred couldn't understand. And then, when he turned and noticed him, he'd rattle something off and remember only half-way through that his younger brother couldn't make heads or tails of what he'd said.

He'd been spoiled. Tex had always acted as a guide and interpreter for him and he'd never bothered to learn for himself.

America looked down the table and gauged its inhabitants. There weren't any immediate barks of dismay or condemnation...which meant it was being well-received until—

"¡Oye! What about us?" Ricardo demanded, jerking a thumb to himself and then over Mathieu's way. "We chopped liver? What about our brotherly bonds?"

Alfred glanced over and with a fixed smile announced, "Rico, I give my full blessing for you to brotherly bond with Canada. Though I warn you Canadian rage is NOT a myth."

"And Canadian bacon ain't as good," Tex threw in.

"That's not what I'm saying!"

"You're not speakin' American," Texas butt in.

"I AM speaking American English, you dumbass."

"Don't understand a word outta his mouth," Tex sighed. "Gotta get him some of that _Hooked on Phonics._ And at his age too. It's so sad."

"I wanna go on the road trip!" Ricardo clarified.

Tex turned to him. "Because no."

"I wanna go."

"Nope."

"Come on, Alfred. We never spend time together: me, you, and that burro."

Tex rolled his eyes. "Oh yeah, that convinces me. Now, it's _**hell**_ no."

"Mathieu, you want to go too, right?" Rico demanded.

"I...I wouldn't mind going," Mathieu murmured. "If...Al doesn't mind."

 _Plan D: Prove Why You'd Be Bad Company._

"Tex clogs drains with hair," Alfred announced.

"I do."

"He will eat 98 percent of the jerky."

"Yup."

"He snores and he picks fights with the locals and he'll choose dives along the way which will make Tums your new bread and butter."

Texas pushed aside his margarita to pour the pitcher of beer into a spare glass for himself and shrugged. "It's all true."

"I mean, and then there's me...and I rule the radio dial and I-"

Puerto Rico set his drink down hard. "Alfred, I already know what chilling with you guys is like. He's a big, whiny crybaby and you're a massive control freak."

"..."

"Run for the hills," Tex growled. "Run. They're that way." He pointed.

Puerto Rico used Spain, who was seated between them, as a shield to duck behind.

Spain obliged. "Tejas, temper."

Reilley scratched his chin. "Ooooh, I have been taking off a lot of work to deal with you boys..."

America pounced on the opportunity. "Exactly! This is time for you guys all to get caught up on stuff. We've really...taken advantage of y'all-"

"You're so cute when you say, ' _y'all_ ,'" Tex gushed.

"-We're sorry about that and we can leave you keys to lock up and see about discounted plane tickets-"

"I could do with a road trip meself. Ya boys wouldnae mind if I came along? Laddie? Yeh got room fer your _**favorite**_ uncle?" Scotland asked.

America choked because…

It was so rare for Scotland to ever ask him for anything.

And the fact that his uncle had done so much for him over the years.

How could he possibly say no? Without looking like the most ungrateful jerkface imaginable?

"Tejas, tu hermano-"

"But Papi, I don't waaaant Rico to come," Tex whined.

"I have to break you in," Puerto Rico stated.

"What?"

"I have to break you in. Mejico told me how Christmas went. You didn't even stay for the whole thing. Lovi said Papi was depressed _**all**_ January."

"No, he wasn't," Tex announced belligerently without looking at Spain.

"I was a little bit," Spain admitted. "I know you are teenager and I have to be giving you space. But I really had been hoping you would spend Fiesta de Los tres Reyes Mages with me. I was all prepared. I had all those extra sweets and then you weren't with me...and seeing them reminded me of you."

"Uh...oh. I just…" Tex ran a hand through his hair "...it was probably good stuff, huh? W-w-wait, break me in for what?"

"Well, you know Papi's going to be inviting you to stuff now," Rico replied in a 'duh' manner.

Tex looked back over at Spain who smiled and nodded and said, "FIFA."

"What-a?"

Spain's face twitched a bit. "FIFA?"

"I ain't understandin' you."

"Football-er-Soccer!" Puerto Rico reached over and gave him a hard poke in the arm.

Tex scratched his chin. "Ohhhh, soccer. Huh. I don't know all the rules of soccer, if I'm honest. And sometimes the uniforms look so similar."

Spain laughed, "Oh I know, mijo. You proved that in December and when we were watching the other day. But I think you would enjoy the event. Big screen. Lots and lots of food. Sometimes at my casa sometimes I rent a meeting room. You know, depending on how many of you can come and celebrate with me."

"Look at Papi's face. C'mon, say yes," Puerto Rico instructed.

Texas crossed his arms. "No. If I go to that then I'll have to go to other stuff, too. Won't I?"

Puerto Rico got up from his chair and walked over to where Tex was seated and set a hand on the back of his chair. He then reached over and stole a quesadilla from Tex's plate.

"This is why I hate all of you and have disowned your asses."

Spain immediately set another quesadilla slice from his own plate onto his younger son's.

And when Puerto Rico very deliberately reached for that one, Spain slapped his hand away.

Puerto shook his hand out and then leaned down. "I helped you while I could, I gave you extra time. But it is over now. Columbus came back, you have been rediscovered, mi hermanito. I am sorry but your reign of freedom ends now. Nobody escapes the Spanish fam-ada. Nobody."

"Is that a threat?"

"Sports events. Concerts. Fireworks. If there's bleachers, ya know what this means? Papi can cram us all into the space."

"I don't wanna go. Papi, you wouldn't make me, right? If I didn't want to...right?"

Spain gave a dejected look. "You would not want to see tauromaquia?"

"Well, yeah I wanna see but-"

"Good, you come. Seville. I tell you when. We can plan for the whole fam-"

"Whoa! Whooooaa!"

"Why whoa? They are familia," Spain frowned.

"They're loco."

"Mijo, that is not nice. You know everybody will be happy to see you."

Tex gave a skeptical look up at Puerto Rico, who shrugged, "Maybe."

Spain was not amused.

"Maybe?! Rico! Of course they are glad. Everyone is glad. _**Everyone**_ , Toni."

Puerto Rico then gave several nods, "Everyone, Tex. Everyone." He hissed, "Spanish Fam-ada" as he returned to his seat.

Tex was silent for a few beats and then griped loudly, "I don't wanna be in the Spanish Fam-ada. I'm an American. My papers say so. Aaaal, tell them."

By then, Spain seemed to take a liking to the name and remarked in amusement, "I must be the flagship, then! Okay, then I say, we go on road trip. Family bonding. Plan for FIFA, plan for festivals, maybe go to lucha libre for Mejico-"

"I never said 'Yes!' Al, help!"

"I've already been zoomed," Alfred muttered because while Tex's family had been squabbling, his own meted out their terms.

Tex looked back over and squawked, "What?"

"Alistair's coming because...he's well, Bro, he's epic and he wants to hang and being in his proximity raises our own cool factor exponentially, so yeah... Rhys is coming since Alistair needs someone to monitor his cholesterol cuz we're not gonna do it. Reilley's coming because Rhys needs someone to get him to lighten the hell up. Arthur's coming because Reilley's not a competent adult. And Mathieu insists on coming because he wants to show off his rafting skills."

"I thought you enjoyed rafting with me!" Mathieu gasped sounding shocked and a bit hurt.

"Sooo, it seems like everybody's going except Mr. Gray. Because he's the only sane one here."

"That seems to be the consensus, sir," the man noted wryly from the far end of the table.

"I wanna stay with you and the quiet house," Tex replied.

"Oh no you don't," Alfred growled. "You gotta wrangle with them, you've only got two to deal with-"

"But there's more of them! They're like the two scouting ants. More will come, Al."

Alfred was losing his patience, "So everybody wants to come then, huh?"

"Hands!" Momilani called loudly as she held hers high.

Unison cries of "Yea!" answered.

Alfred stared numbly.

Momilani smirked, "Sorry, baby, you've been outvoted. Democracy."

She got him.

Direct hit.

Right in the Liberty Bells.

* * *

Read & Review Please : D


	36. Chapter 36

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or Julio's Tortilla Chips. Or Doritos.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Women's Suffrage in Texas: they were able to vote in primaries by 1918 and were given full suffrage rights in 1919. They were the 9th state to ratify the 19th Amendment and the first of three previously 'Confederate' states to do so. Meanwhile, Virginia women didn't get suffrage until 1920 after the 19th Amendment was made into law (3/4ths of states rules or in other words: Tennessee FTW)...and if that wasn't embarrassing enough...its General Assembly didn't ratify it officially until 1952! And Mississippi was dead last in 1984! Yikes! Poking fun at bathrooms. Family drama, angst, fluff, etc. Unflattering Flashback for 1812 Alfred...the spoiled brat, lol. Texas vs. Hawaii over trip. Helicopter Parent Spain.

 **AN:** Hey everybody! I've officially got my BA in English with a minor in History...and I'm back from a deeply needed vacation...where I walked in sunlight and talked to people. Yay :D And then I finished this chap. Thank you for your reviews!

 **Chapter 36: I Can Be The Bad Cop**

* * *

Alfred sat on the bathroom vanity counter with his stuffed animal, Hop, watching as Tex brushed his teeth before bed.

Alfred twisted one of the cloth rabbit's ears fretfully, "But it's democracy."

Tex spat, "Well, technically, there were only three bona fide citizens there so…"

"Tex, Puerto Rico's vote should count in-"

"Nope. None of 'em count. I count. You count. Hawaii counts." He gave Alfred a side-eye and elbowed him. "We just _**had**_ to be advocates of women's suffrage."

Alfred glared. "Tex."

"I'm joking. Heck, I put it into practice before you did. I-"

"Texxxxx."

"Hey, if you want me to, I can be the bad cop. Over breakfast I'll tell them that it's just us. No ifs, ands, or buts about it."

Alfred sighed and leaned back against the mirror, "No, don't do that." He fiddled with Hop's bow—twirling the ribbon between his fingers. "Look, if we play hardball it would establish a precedent that could be used against us later when we're the guests and they're the hosts."

"No."

"Yes."

"No, cuz we have the nuclear option. Doritos, Now! Or I press the button," Tex grinned.

"Yeah," Alfred rolled his eyes, "cuz that's how adults decide things."

"Do you want your way or not?"

"If I'm a real poor sport about it, then they'll know something's off," Alfred sighed. "I just dunno how we're gonna pull this off."

"You leave it to me, I'll figure something out," Tex assured before he filled a glass with water to gargle with.

Alfred evened out the tails of Hop's bow. "I mean, we can pretend we're up to a Blair Witch film thing. You know, to explain why we need to wander off? And that we need to only have, like, two people in order for it to stay creepy. Large cast equals slasher. Small cast and you've got horror."

Tex spat again. "Ugh. I hate shaky cam flicks-"

"Bro, we wouldn't really be-"

"We'll just go hiking...a lot...alone. Say we're trying to remember how to navigate by the stars. Old school stuff. They're geezers, they'll respect that."

Alfred started to snicker, "We can hardly ditch my dad and he's got a bum ankle. You really think you can shake Spain? Especially, considering how long it's been since you've gone cold turkey off technology? He'll ask you a question and you'll answer wrong and he'll freak out and invite himself along. You can't think it's gonna go right without any hitch at all?"

"...yeah."

"..."

"Maybe."

"Tex…"

"Maybe we can just go on a Bigfoot hunt and post him somewhere to keep watch?"

"You really think Bigfoot's the way to go on this?"

"Well, we can't go the alien route, Al. I mean, Tony's our on-again off-again roommate. I can't act all surprised now that there's life out in the beyond. I already know that there is. And it steals the last slice of pizza and uses my deodorant...which is just wrong."

"That's why you go for the aerosol option; nothing touches. Anyway, I think I might have one trick up my sleeve."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, a while ago Rhys was instructing Dad on how to shield his thoughts and stuff and…"

By a lucky turn of fate, Alistair hadn't been around to foil his eavesdropping.

The corner of Tex's mouth quirked, "And?"

Alfred smiled with more than a hint of triumphant mischief. "I think I've got it down."

Because privacy was important.

"So he's not gonna be crashing our room anymore?" Tex grinned.

Alfred nodded, "And then we'll be able to make our master plan without any more disruptions."

"Woohoo, best news tonight. And I ain't gonna lie, I needed some."

Shelving England a bit was...necessary…

America deserved to have secrets...to have space…to choose what he shared.

He was a capable, upright, composed nation who…

He reflexively fixed the cuffs on his pajama shirt and checked the buttons.

He blinked.

There was something...nostalgic about thinking like...that…

"Al?"

"Yup," he smiled brightly, "we're...we're definitely gonna figure it all out."

"O'course!"

"Of course," he echoed faintly, wondering why he felt guilty at his brother's full faith in him.

His stomach abruptly plummeted. Quite suddenly he was scrabbling for self-confidence and it made him feel like he was sinking.

He hopped down from the counter and made his way down the hall. He just needed a good night's rest.

That would shake this...whatever it was...off.

* * *

Alfred dreamt of the past. Of dim lantern lighting and the musty smell of taverns and gunpowder.

" _So you have a Mrs. Weatherby, now. That's wonderful, Samuel. It's probably the first bit of good news I've heard upon my return," Alfred replied with real cheer. And wasn't it good to feel a bit of real gladness?_

 _The young man smiled bashfully and readjusted the modest wedding ring on his finger. "I've a modest salary but a promotion or two should see us living comfortably."_

 _Alfred raised his tankard to that and Samuel clinked them together._

 _Each took a deep sip of ale. It was cheap and a tad bitter, and it was a small annoyance for he could've afforded better what with his own salary and the generous sum Father had left him (or he thought Father had left him, the man never returned for it...so Father must've intended him to have it. If it was his to use while he'd been a colony, it was his to use as a nation) but he was trying very hard to be considerate of Samuel._

 _He'd make a point to create a charm for his friend and his household. His father and uncles would probably be better at it, but he'd do what he could to ensure good luck and prosperity for his friend and his new bride. The trick was blending the design into something innocuous._

 _Given the man's almost fervent devotion to church service, Alfred was more than a little leery of confessing his leanings towards witchcraft...lest another Salem-like spectacle break out._

 _And perhaps he was also fearful of a demand for a demonstration, given his weakening ties to the craft._

 _Arthur had promised to help him restore his Sight. But considering the tension between them following the Revolution and now the overture of this war...it was becoming increasingly likely that England would be glad to see him depowered._

 _He'd be less of a threat._

 _It sent a chill down his spine...thinking like that...thinking of the hexes his family could send his way. He'd be at their mercy._

 _No!_

 _No...Father wouldn't allow it...would he?_

 _He stared down into his ale._

 _Arthur had always seemed so genuinely happy at the prospect of instructing him personally in the occult. As a result, Alfred had dawdled quite a bit (waiting for him to return) and only delved in very mild spellcasting. Though...self-preservation also had a hand in it; when he overexerted himself, he found his Sight and...well, even his hearing to be affected._

 _The tankard in hand was cheap and the tin was slightly misshapen._

 _Father would say it was 'Poor craftsmanship' and likely wouldn't handle it at all._

 _It was why he had to go to such lengths to ensure high quality._

 _Another chandelier for the estate would be arriving the next week; he'd made the order ages ago. He liked to think that if he could just have a moment alone with Arthur, they could reconcile. He could take him to the house and…_

 _And…_

 _He blew out a frustrated breath; Father's ire couldn't possibly win out against the painstaking care he'd taken in designing the manor._

 _His reflection rippled as he set the tankard down._

 _His ire couldn't hold...Father adored him._

 _He remembered meadows and flower crowns and smiling green eyes..._

 _Declarations and actions that proved the man's affections..._

 _Yes._

 _Father adored him._

 _Could barely level a musket at his chest even with all of America's men (traitors no doubt in England's eyes) watching...expecting the veteran soldier not to bend._

 _And he sunk to his knees in the mud, overcome with emotion._

 _Couldn't do it._

 _Could never do it._

 _Would never harm him...because..._

 _Father adored him._

 _Yes, he hadn't gotten the reception needed to deliver the key...but he could mail it if need be. Though it would rob him of seeing the other's response._

 _He'd also lose the chance to address the uncivil treatment he'd been receiving. Father would probably be angry that Mathieu and his uncles were treating him so roughly. Reilley had hit him hard enough for him to still have bruises._

 _He ought to write Father about that, he mused petulantly._

 _He thought of the portrait he'd hung in Father's room; just because their countries were separated didn't mean their bonds needed to be fully torn asunder._

 _His first war made sense; he had to claim his independence. This one, though. This one was so hard for him to understand. He knew he was being insulted and he had to act to assert himself...his sovereignty...but…_

 _It was difficult to dedicate himself to service. His heart just wasn't quite in it. He just wanted Father to see him...as the upright, capable nation he was. And maybe get Canada to join him._

 _Surely, his brother uniting with him was the best possible case. The sort of liberty America was promoting could only make his brother's lands a better place. And it wasn't like there wasn't a precedent for such actions. England was united with his brothers in an alliance. America would do the same. They'd be a North American empire!_

 _O think of that!_

 _And he'd let Mathieu choose which bedroom he wanted in the manor; one facing the north or maybe he'd prefer the one further down—he sometimes complained at the volume of noise Alfred could make as he paced his room for ideas. Yes, he just needed his brother on his side. The Canadian was better with words anyway and once they were together, they'd be able to negotiate with the United Kingdom._

 _He straightened the cufflinks on his uniform. He looked the part, didn't he? Upright? Capable? Composed?_

 _His uniform was always pressed, his boots polished to a high shine._

 _He loved catching his reflection in all things that gleamed._

 _Father should be proud to claim him under his legacy._

 _The scene changed to dark woods under a cloudy sky._

 _And he was racing through the woods with a scared and swearing Samuel behind him._

 _Perhaps it was the absurdity of his plan._

 _The everlingering desperation that dogged his steps._

 _Perhaps it was the apathy growing in his breast which seemed every bit as poisonous as the bouts of fury which kept eating at him at inopportune moments._

 _He wouldn't be able to keep up a charade of adulthood if he succumbed to tantrums. God, it was difficult._

 _Part of him kept wanting to storm Canada's border again and demand a family meeting, force an apology, get answers, ask them how they could take advantage of him like this?_

 _To...to trick him into thinking that they...that they really...when they didn't…_

 _Manipulated._

 _But he didn't think he could take it if they started laughing at him._

 _And he didn't want to weep like a child._

 _Like a pitiful child._

 _Children didn't win wars._

 _And winning was paramount._

 _He'd give everything to win._

 _Everything._

 _And he did._

Alfred woke with a start. He sat up, shivering. The room seemed awfully dark and the lavalamp wasn't enough to illuminate it.

He padded through the house to the kitchen, more than half-terrified of all the shadows, and turned all the lights on in there (even grabbing a stepladder to switch on the overhead stove lights). Then he scrambled to find cookies and warm up some milk and-and anything that could soften remembering. Though he knew could never make it as good as—

"Alfred?"

He jumped and stirred the milk so vigorously that some sloshed over the side and hissed as it hit the burner.

Arthur appeared, shuffling into view in his house robe and slippers. He had glasses on and judging from the way they were slightly askew it looked like he'd fallen asleep while reading. He slipped a hand under the lens to rub sleep from his eyes. "You alright, pet? It felt like you had a nightmare. I went to your room but-"

"Y-yes. I-I did but-"

Arthur snapped to alertness at his tone and the smell of burnt milk.

Alfred looked at the ruined potfull and swore softly.

"It's alright," Arthur rushed forward and moved Alfred off the stepladder. "You sit, I'll...manage this."

He transferred the pot to the sink and poured what he could down the drain.

"You had a bad dream?" he prompted.

"..."

He then went about making a new batch in a fresh pot—going through the cupboards for ingredients. "I always add a little vanilla and honey for you. Australia likes it with a touch of cinnamon, you know? Not you though. You've always liked honey being added to everything. I like honey, too."

Alfred stood there shivering until Arthur draped his house robe on his shoulders and gave him a firm but gentle push toward the table.

"Now, I think tomorrow, or rather later today, we'll need to start drawing up plans on what provisions to pack for the trip as well as dividing expenses. I'll make sure Alistair pays his share, I assure you. So if he tries to bully you with that 'favorite uncles needn't pay' nonsense, you come to me, dearheart." He counted out several drops of vanilla extract into the milk. "Yes...I'll set him to rights."

Go on, Alfred. Disinvite them. He could use 1812 as a reason. Say that they kept dragging up the ghosts of his past and insist he needed downtime. For peace of mind.

He'd already done a lot. Given them tons of leeway.

It was huge that Alfred was willing to make so many accommodations for them since they'd barreled back into his life following the wendigo fiasco. Right?

He didn't owe them more than that.

If he'd followed Tex's plan without dragging his feet, it'd probably have already been done and over with.

He'd probably be wrestling with pneumonia from Hell but the gate would be located, maybe even opened, and the prickling sense of dread hanging over their May Day trip wouldn't be there.

"What's wrong, love?" Arthur asked as he stirred the pot. "Was it a dream or a memory?"

He'd forgotten to shield off his turbulent feelings.

Arthur filled a mug of warm milk and set it down before Alfred before taking a seat beside him—moving the chair close.

He selected three small cookies for Alfred and one for himself.

What was safe to share?

"I had a chandelier coming from Italy. I'd ordered it years earlier. Special. Cost extra. The…the...not the cup but the part under...the…I had them shaped like roses."

"Ah, the bobeche. I know the one. In my room. I cleaned that chandelier." Arthur smiled. "It's lovely."

"You always liked English roses best." And that had always hurt him that Arthur never seemed to find his native roses as beautiful as his own.

"You had a bad memory about a chandelier? Import costs?" Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Taxes?"

And the flippancy there.

The familiarity of that…lurking sneer...

Of countless arguments where that bored, slightly sardonic tone made him feel so stupid...

It abruptly triggered his temper in such a spike, he wasn't even thinking anymore—his mouth was just moving: "The Italian chandelier was coming and Samuel was married and the war had just started. And why couldn't you just see me? I was a lieutenant! My uniform was crisp and my buttons were polished and I was everything I ever wanted to be. Everything you should have been proud of," he hissed, "Why couldn't you be with me then? Why do you have to be here now after I was ruined?!"

Green eyes went wide, effectively stunned at the vehemence of the response.

And Alfred's chest was heaving with barely restrained passionate fury. And there was no ice in his soul to deaden it down.

Arthur very carefully reached over to Alfred to thumb several tears away. "To the first, I don't have a good answer. I was petty? Arrogant? Ignorant? Maybe I felt threatened? I don't know. To the second, I didn't know you still needed me. Again, a stupid conclusion, but your newfound independence and successes seemed to confirm it to me. You didn't need me anymore. Not like you used to. I've...I've never been terribly graceful in accepting changes. I _am_ proud of you. I never needed you in a uniform for me to feel that way. As for the last, you are not, nor have you ever been, ruined. I've been alive far longer than you and am no stranger to the sight. I am not making light of what you've endured. I've seen 'ruined,' you're not it."

He couldn't make him see! "...I wasn't America the... _Beautiful_...anymore…"

Even the UnSeelie's evil mirror had understood that.

"Pish posh."

So freaking dense!

"You don't understand. You didn't see what happened to me!" Grief choked him. He'd had to cover all the mirrors. Had to beg Uncle Al and Uncle Reilley to swear they would keep quiet about it. Spare him the indignity of his slow-healing injuries being discussed over tea time in the Empire's presence. It was hard enough to have been brought so low on his own father's orders, but the least he could do was not allow him further satisfaction over it!

Except...a little voice reminded him...Father didn't order such a thing...

Arthur didn't blink and he didn't back down. Instead, he turned Alfred's chair toward him and said levelly, "You're my America and you've always been beautiful-"

"No!" he spat. Remembering the stares and gasps. "I lost it after-"

"Never. You could never lose it. It was never in your skin."

"..."

"You were always more than that. I'm sorry I never made that clear before now."

* * *

Rhys awoke early and put on a pot of tea before doing his morning stretches in the room next to the kitchen.

"Yeh know you just look ridiculous," Alistair noted, leaning against the wall, already dressed for the day.

"It's yoga."

"Well, it's not for you. It's for ladies."

"I disagree. As would India, who instructed me." Rhys frowned as he stretched his arms in vrksasana pose. "Why are you here, Alba?"

"God, Gwalia. You're just determined to be annoyed with me."

"You shouldn't have butted into their plans last night. They're going to resent us if they're not given any room for independence."

"Didn't stop yeh from voting 'yea.'"

"..."

Alistair frowned and sighed at baseboards across from him. "Hawaii herself knows they're up to something, remember? We gotta stick close or they'll be out like a shot and we'll be trailin' after them as the clean up crew."

"..."

Grey eyes focused back on him. "Now, what's the real reason you're being so short with me?"

Rhys looked away to move into trikonasana pose. He addressed the ceiling. "You flagrantly abuse Alfred's fondness for you. I can't believe you actually refer to yourself as his 'favorite' uncle. One day you're going to say it, and he's going to correct you, and you're-"

"Ack, you're jealous. You're actually jealous...that I got clout and you-" He choked off at the sight of Rhys's flat expression. "...you...yeh really are…?"

Rhys frowned; his brother was shamelessly using his soft spot in the boy's heart. Rhys had never done that back when…

Alistair shook his head. "Oi, yeh gave the spot up when yeh let war get your panties in a bunch."

Rhys felt a flash of real fury at that.

Alistair scratched an ear. "Yeah, he injured yeh. And I won't mince words, I raged over that. Trust me, I didn't pull several of my punches. But then ya know, we sacked his capital, and I found him and he was ugh...ya saw him after, and…"

"You didn't see fit to inform me that I'd been forgo-"

"You didn't stay. You weren't around and yeh didn't want to be. You were jus' like Arthur. He didn't fit your perfect idear of him anymore. He didn't stick to the script o' 'Happy family' and you both wrote him out."

Rhys straightened up, offended at the implication, and shrewdly aware of how that could play out in his brother's favor. "So you saw your opportunity?"

"Ack, I tripped into a vacuum. You were gone. Arthur was...gone. Still! Yeh got to be the favorite of America AND Canada for all of before. Eire got a lot of the ones after. I got Al...lil' Al...and only after you were done and washin' your hands of him."

"I thought...I thought he _hated_ me."

"Aye, well, you shoulda made sure of it."

"Yes, I suppose I should have," he lowered his voice as anger made it shake. "Since I couldn't count on you to clear up such misunderstandings-"

"Wait a minute," Alistair crossed his arms. "Dunno when _**I**_ became the family's peacekeeper-"

"Because you were there! Twpsyn!"

The Scotsman gave him a blank look.

Hazel eyes narrowed, "I would hope, but I clearly I can't, that my brother would argue on my behalf to those who doubted, especially a nephew! that I was a good man! Loving-"

Alistair flushed and looked uncomfortable and put out defensively, "Reilley was there, too."

"Llwfrgi."

Alistair glared.

"If you couldn't say that. Then reasonable. You could've told him I could be reasoned with. And I could've mended our bond myself."

Alistair ran a hand through his hair and looked away. "All I knew...was you were both my kin and I could either be with one of yeh one at a time or try to force yeh together and..." he shrugged.

"Well, what about now?"

"Huh?"

"What. About. Now?"

A large red eyebrow rose.

"Brawd, what are you doing to help us, now?"

"Us?"

"Me and Alfred. Or-or, for god's sake, Alfred and Arthur. He's probably the only one you've harmed worse than me with your silence."

"..."

"You had every opportunity to bring them together and you-"

"You're here now, the two of yeh, I don't have to do anything. You can...do...things...now...for yourselves. Kettle's whistling." He passed by him to go to the kitchen.

* * *

Tex frowned as he looked up from the map he'd been marking—deciding what route he wanted them to take up for the road trip to Ohiopyle, Pennsylvania. He'd already had to call back to the campground and change their number of guests yet again—first, when he was just banking on Alfred and himself, then when the May Day trip got sprung wrong, and then again with the latest turn of the coerced-kumbaya-camping quest.

"Are you trying to avoid tolls?" Hawaii asked trying to peer over his shoulder. "Honey, there's enough of us. I'm sure we can divvy-"

"I get to choose the route," Tex insisted through gritted teeth.

She rolled her eyes at him and moved away to take a seat on the couch.

Hawaii was just trying to be difficult. It was one thing to have all the guys along for the camping trip, he could piss them off and abandon them in the woods and they'd get over it, but the fact that she wanted to tag along too…

He was gonna have to add mall and shopping center stops.

Plus, if he and Al cut out on the traveling band...he'd feel bad if they left her in the middle of nowhere. Especially, because she'd be left with said 'pissed off' guys.

And she never let stuff go.

He knew she was still testy over her whole...entry... into the United States as a territory. Sooo...there was a coup d'etat involved; it made her story more...adventurous?

He just didn't get it. When it became clear that Mexico was never gonna take her claws off him, he was glad to join America, who drove her off.

From his viewpoint in the 1800s, America had a good thing going and he'd wanted in on that.

He frowned. And now of all things she wanted in on this. THIS. Why this?

She normally didn't want in on dude stuff, like racing and wrestling and dining in hole-in-the-wall dives.

"If you're going to have an attitude, maybe I should invite Alaska and Molossia?" Hawaii shrugged.

She knew that Al always wanted him on his best behavior when those two were around because Al was always a little in awe of Alaska and his quiet warrior ways. And because Molossia was still super young and Tex and Al were supposed to be good role models for him.

"Tch."

Maybe he could dissuade her from coming by going the full chauvinist route?

He jumped over the couch and landed beside her—an action he knew she hated and was rewarded with an irate look.

"You're lucky I wasn't painting my nails," she grumbled.

"Right. So...I was thinking, you don't wanna come along for this trip. It's not your style. I got fancy spa retreats and boutiques all throughout my state and Americat would love your company."

She crossed her arms, "I'm not rescinding my vote, Baby."

"But...but-but...you're...a girl," Tex pointed out like it explained everything.

"And?"

"You're a giiirl. It changes the...ya know...it changes the dynamic. The atmosphere."

"Soooo, there's less cursing and farting, you mean?" Hawaii studied her nails.

Puerto Rico choked on his sip of Coke as he sniggered in appreciation.

Texas glared at his brother. "Shut up, Rico." And then looked back at her. "There's gonna be lots of stuff that we can't talk about cuz you'll be there. And it changes the brother-at-arms-men-in-the-wilderness vibe. It just does."

She stared.

"Now, we're gonna have to find places with...ya know, not scary bathrooms."

"And that's a problem?"

"Yeah, when we're driving. You're not gonna be cool with a bush and the roll of TP I got in the glove compartment."

"Baby, is this really that big a thing? Stopping at a few extra gas stations?"

"The ladies' room always takes forever. Add it all together and we'll be losing hours as we drive up whenever nature calls for you-"

"Tex-"

"And you don't like the motels I pick. And you're not that crazy about camping unless we're waiting on you hand and foot and-"

"I will not—I haven't acted like that in ages. Alfred?" she turned to beseech him.

His poor baby brother had just entered the room with a bag of Julio's Corn Tortilla chips, that Tex was determined to get a handful of, and an expression of ' _What, now?'_

Tex felt kinda bad, his little brother had been in low spirits all morning and hadn't fessed up to what was bothering him yet.

"Alfred?" Hawaii repeated.

"Yes," he responded cautiously.

Hawaii batted her eyes. "Alfred, think about all the good things I bring to the table. Waitstaff and cashiers love me. I Febreeze things. I always have quarters for those little rides and games you like. And you're little enough now, you can choose which bathroom to go in as long as I'm with you."

"Oh my god," Alfred murmured, struck by that realization. "I _**am**_ young enough to choose as long as I have a female chaperone to negotiate with the gatekeepers of-"

Tex gaped. "What? No, you are-"

Momilani grinned as she sensed victory and reached into the bag for a chip.

Tex glowered. "Momilani, don't confuse him! No, Al, you're on Team Testosterone. You don't get to-"

"I've heard legends of how all the doors on the stalls lock and there are no TP stalactites hanging from the ceiling."

She nodded sagely. "The classy ones have potpourri and leather upholstered sitting areas, classical music, flowers with porcelain vases, and fine art."

"A bathroom _parlor…_ and it doesn't require attendants..." Alfred murmured whimsically. "Do the mirrors have ornate framework and no cracks? Heck, is there always soap from at least one dispenser?"

"You'll have to have a woman along to find out."

Tex pointed an accusing finger. "Nononono. NOPE. Al, you're not allowed in there. I forbid it."

"You heard her, I bet even the regular ones smell better."

"FORBID it."

"Tch. The smell enforces why we must be fast. You don't wanna breathe that in. Get in. Get out. That's how it's supposed to be," Puerto Rico threw in as his two cents.

Tex high-fived him. Rico grinned, looking pleased with himself.

"This is a non issue," Mathieu muttered from the other end of the couch.

"No!" Tex insisted looking over at Al who looked equally uncomfortable. "We, well, we...suddenly care a lot about bathrooms and who goes where."

Rico sighed and took the bag of chips altogether. "If only you could care half as much about me or Guam or-"

Alfred sighed, "I hate to admit it. But these sort of obsessions always crop up whenever there's a bunch of legislation regarding-"

"Care about the gaps," Reilley grumbled, "In the door. It makes it hard to concentrate."

"But Uncle Reilley, that helps you prepare for movie-style thriller-esque attacks!" Alfred insisted, though it earned him multiple looks. "And so janitors can clean towards one center drain in the floor."

"But the gaps along the door seam!" Reilley argued.

Tex and Alfred glanced at each other and shrugged.

Yeah, they weren't exactly sure how to argue that one.

"We're not perverts, if that's what you're fixin' to insinuate," Tex put out there, trying to keep the speculation clean.

Only...

Alfred slapped his forehead and Rico howled with laughter and Texas knew he hadn't handled that suavely.

* * *

España fidgeted. He crossed one leg over the other as he sat on the porch's deck beside Puerto Rico, but he couldn't quite stop it from bouncing nervously.

He was not made for waiting on the sidelines.

His son offered him some alcapurria from the plateful he'd made. He shook his hand in a 'no' gesture but patted the boy's back in gratitude for his courtesy. Such a good boy.

And he was nice and safe, seated on Papi's right on the swing chair; the absence on his left side felt very conspicuous.

He winced as Escocia delivered another hard elbow into Tejas' side.

His face scrunched in severe disapproval. It was not a fair fight by any capacity.

Tejas had assured him that this was some sort of training exercise, but he was armed only with a small knife while Escocia had a claymore.

His hands itched for his battle axe to even the score; that was a weapon better suited for this skirmish.

It was after another brief scuffle, that ended with Tejas being tossed out of the dirt "ring" they'd all helped make earlier (before España realized they were not outlining an area for roasting marshmallows and it was for fighting), that España stood up and marched over.

"This is not good," he declared without preamble.

Tejas flushed and scrambled to his feet. "Papi-"

Antonio pointed at Alistair. "You are a bad teacher. Es imperdonable. You are doing this all wrong-"

"O really, and how, Daddy-dearest, would you start off the laddie for training?" Escocia smirked nastily.

'"With strength-training," España sneered back. "Of course."

"Papi, stop it. You are embarrassing me!"

España's mouth twisted, "I do not mean to."

"No, hermanito!" Rico called from the sidelines, grinning from ear to ear. "Do not take offense. He is just saying you are not strong and tough. Not a real homb-"

España choked. "Rico! No! Nonono, Tejas. Mijo..." He straightened his son's shirt and dusted some dirt off of it. "I am just saying that muscles for running and shooting and that kind of combat...er...I...I am saying…uh...that they're are different muscles for this kind of fighting. This is older kind of...siege fighting—Papi will show you." He righted the boy's glasses from where they were sitting crooked on the bridge of his cute little nose. "I can train you-"

"No, Papi, I need him to-"

Antonio felt a strong flare of annoyance at the resistance. "But he is just trying to beat you up! _I_ will give you exercises to do. And then we can spar and I can get you to a level where it's...not like _**this**_. And you can fight him."

His son gave him an indignant look. "I _**know**_ how to fight."

Antonio held in a long suffering sigh. "I know, mijo."

His son had a bad case of talking a big game about fighting and having no skill that justified it.

Lovi did that, he thought fondly. But Lovino at least had the good sense to run when the situation escalated. Particularly, if Antonio wasn't there to protect him.

Meanwhile, Tejas stayed and took the beating.

Maybe that was why there were so many tombstones...

From what he'd seen, his Tejas had already come out the worse in a number of scuffles with the U.K. clan over the past year.

He was still angry that Inglaterra had laid violent hands on his pequeño twice.

Tejas' brown eyes were glaring at him.

España sighed.

He understood his son's sense of honor but...he'd always thought of him as being more sensible than this.

"You are very light. I mean, just look at your narrow shoulders-"

"Dammit, Spain!" his young son hissed. "I've had just about en-"

"I mean, part of it is your age. Papi did not always look like this." He flexed an impressive bicep.

Tejas turned red and got flustered. "Gah, I hate you so much right now, you-"

"-But I am certain with good diet and exercise, we can get you-"

"I have plenty of upper body strength! I do roping and wrangling-"

España struggled with himself. He didn't want to be the bad guy in this but…

He wrapped an arm around his son and pulled him in. "You are lean. You are toned. But Toni, if you are going to compete against _**him**_. You need muscle. You need weight."

"I do not! I'm plenty-"

Antonio tightened his hold and with one arm was able to lift his son off the ground before immediately setting him back down.

Because he wasn't trying to hurt his feelings, he just needed to make a point.

In a fight without bullets...just brawn...his boy needed more on him if he was going to hold off a larger, heavier, more experienced opponent.

"That don't prove nuthin' why...Al can lift me easy, too!"

Tejas shooed him away and he reluctantly returned to the swing chair.

He was just trying to help but it seemed like he only succeeded in making his son more nervous.

He was making more mistakes.

And worse, he was now hesitating to the point of missing opportunities where he would've at least landed light strikes before.

He was getting increasingly uncomfortable as his child performed poorly.

Antonio was good with weapons, he could instruct his son.

Puerto Rico grimaced as his brother took a hard hit near the kidneys and it only added to España's determination to intervene before Tejas was seriously injured.

He'd already witnessed several hits that would leave bruises.

The screen door clanged loudly.

"Geez, Tex. Been watching from the window and...I'm disappointed," America declared coldly as he carried out a collapsible fabric storage cube.

Tejas flinched in a way España knew too well. He'd done that when he was small and Antonio scolded him too harshly or moved too suddenly and frightened him.

The fact that his son could still make such a vulnerable expression when he so often exuded over-the-top confidence...hurt him to see.

"Al..." his son mumbled with a clear note of hurt that broke Antonio's heart.

"What an insult to Alistair," the boy drawled icily.

Tejas held his hands up placatingly. "No, Ally, I-"

"Then you must be really out of shape," the American's voice was uncharacteristically sharp and cold.

España gnashed his teeth; mijo would not appreciate him swearing at America and America wouldn't comprehend what he was saying.

But he wasn't about to take this sitting down.

Feathers thoroughly ruffled, he stormed over.

Alfred made no notice of seeing Antonio and set the storage cube in his arms down on the porch step and sat down beside it. "I mean, wow, you're not prepped at all. You're wearing your specs. You're still in dress boots. You're even wearing your hat. I mean, I got why you sucked at Kirkland Manor. You've never been good in snow. But here? On your home turf and you can't hold your own? What the hell?"

Tejas scuffed a toe in the gritty dirt and mumbled, "He's your favorite uncle-"

"You're my favorite brother," Alfred's eyes narrowed, "...kick his ass."

Alistair stopped and gaped.

Tejas nodded determinedly and threw his knife into the ground where the blade sunk and made it stand. He then took his hat off, and tossed it to Alfred who caught it with one hand.

He walked purposefully over and exchanged his glasses for a pair of military styled goggles, slid off his western boots in favor of combat ones, and pulled on a pair of half-finger, military grade tactical gloves.

He returned to the dirt ring, took up an actual fighting stance with his knife, and gave a predatory grin that España had never known.

* * *

Read & Review Please and Thank You For Your Patience : DDD


	37. Chapter 37

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Lord Byron's _Manfred_ Quote: " **Cold** — **cold** —even to the heart." Or _East Lynne. Or the Marine's motto: The few, the proud, the marines. Or the song: Streets of Laredo._

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Some fight terms. Side note: Mood swings can also be a symptom of C-PTSD.

 **AN:** Thank you for your reviews and your patience! I was on a family trip visiting more family several states away. And, I kid you not, never had a minute by myself to write XD. BTW I love it when you guys dig deep and contemplate. That's what makes writing from a space of moral gray so fun. Hope this next chap gives you more to ponder. : D

 **Chapter 37: In a Fridge of Semi-Forgetfulness**

* * *

Arthur's stirring of his tea slowed. "Wot?"

He had to have misheard.

Mathieu took a deep breath and repeated himself.

The spoon sunk into the cup.

They'd been having a nice little chat; he and Mathieu were seated on one side of the couch, Reilley and Rhys on the other...because Texas' home still needed more seating for proper entertainment and this was the first time Spain and his brood had left the area long enough for him and his to enjoy the space.

He had a news channel going on in the background. As his government had warned him, a Referendum had been officially scheduled and the media was having a field day.

Even as removed as the U.S. was (and it had a terrible track record for broadcasting world events preferring to focus on itself and its most sordid dramas), England's troubles were of note.

He'd so wanted the EU to succeed but if his citizens didn't feel secure…it was all moot.

Sensing his depressed air, and because Mathieu could be such a lamb, led the lad to lighter talk in efforts to buoy his former guardian's feelings.

They'd all been talking about Toronto Theatre District and the need to plan a trip there and then more generally about plays and melodrama.

And changing humor over the years.

O how Arthur remembered stage productions of _East Lynne_ not leaving a dry eye in the 1860s and now it couldn't be read aloud in classrooms without fits of giggles following the monologues.

The discussion on melodramatic and operatic complications somehow segued into Mathieu discussing his latest session with Meegan and how he was working to unravel and de-escalate the tension between himself and Alfred before they wound up in such a state, which Mathieu stated was difficult considering how jealous he'd been of Alfred this past year.

Arthur had openly stared—blindsided by the abrupt confession and then spluttered, "What for?!"

To his surprise he then received an apology for not being more helpful sooner and was left hastily trying to assure he wasn't fishing for such sentiments.

He'd wondered repeatedly for the root of Mathieu's ill moods but...he'd have never guessed jealousy!

Mathieu fidgeted, "I..I guess I just felt...threatened…"

Arthur's eyebrows shot upward. "Threatened? How?"

He was too surprised by the admission. His Mathieu, who had always been very patient and supportive and secure…

All the memories of him being a good role model flitted through his mind; playing with Australia and New Zealand when they were too little to join "big kid" games, helping a very young Hong Kong learn to tie Western shoelaces, distracting Wy out of a tantrum with quirky questions.

"By Alfred's situation."

"Good God, why?" He set his tea and saucer down onto the table. Nothing about the American's predicament seemed envious in the slightest.

And it had been difficult remaining largely stoic in the face of it; if he'd empathized too much with America's horror and frustration, the boy would've demanded concessions from him that he just couldn't give.

He had to ride in the bloody car seat.

Arthur wasn't stupid. He knew how much his son loathed it.

The idea of suddenly being a child again and trying to rally Parliament's respect and attention...

Mathieu swallowed and continued softly, "You're...blood-related...that's...that's a special connection..."

Green eyes widened. Oh...

It was…

Impossible to deny the joy that sprang in him in realizing Roanoke birth's arose from his explorations.

It was…

Something infinitely pleasing to him to be able to reach with his magic and receive near instant confirmation that his child was alive and well, along with shades of his feelings. There was always a bit of anxiety in waiting for his other wards' communications...even with the creation of phones and instant messaging applications. And considering Alfred was one of the worst at keeping in touch, it was a boon of enormous proportion to not have to rely on technology at all in regards to him now.

It was...

Special to look down into someone's face and take note of features that you once idly dismissed as similar to yours by happy chance to being the direct result of yours.

But…

He looked Mathieu determinedly in the face.

All the years _their_ nations had spent together, coordinating efforts and enterprises...

All the shared intellectual tastes...

All the festivities and ceremonies and battles and events…

Their lives were very integrated. The threads of their destinies were woven together, recorded, and preserved through the impressive mantel of empire.

Even their modern day interactions were greatly influenced by a wealth of history that maintained an affection that had lasted and manifested in new generations of people.

Hearing the lad speak of feeling isolated…

He settled a hand on the lad's shoulder. "Mathieu, you _**are**_ family. Every bit as much. Every bit."

He pulled the younger nation into his side, ignoring the height and breadth of the young adult.

Mathieu still seemed tense.

So Arthur smiled and continued, "And I cannot overstate my appreciation that you didn't need to be _melodramatic_ and allow our troubles to fester into a supernaturally enhanced grudge which makes allowances for apocalyptic possibilities. I repeat, I AM grateful."

Mathieu breathed out a soft laugh and tentatively made eye contact.

Rhys set his book in his lap and added, "Yes, you have all the benefits of being a part of our clan and none of the genetic inclinations towards madness or-" He looked over at Reilley who'd dropped a vanilla biscuit into his cup and was trying to fish it out with a second biscuit which was swiftly melting due to the heat of the beverage "-eccentricities."

Sensing he was the butt of a joke, Reilley made a rude gesture at his eldest brother.

Arthur tried to frown but couldn't quite manage it.

Mathieu sighed and rested more of his weight against him and Arthur remembered carriage and train rides where he was always having to assure the boy that he could rest, Arthur would keep watch (the boy had developed paranoia regarding train robbers and highwaymen because all of their conversations with Alfred seemed to consist of harrowing adventures the American had survived). Arthur had listened to Alfred's many anecdotes about thwarting would-be villains and dismissed them as a means of shameless self-promotion and near comical vanity.

But now…

Considering what a magnet for trouble his boy was…

Arthur pushed it out of his mind.

He needed to focus on Mathieu right now.

He gave the boy another hug and neither pulled away for propriety's sake or ill-timed pride.

He smiled when the boy leaned into him, laying his head on his shoulder.

In fact, it was rather nice to have someone receive his affection and sincerity without questioning his motives…without doubt souring the moment...

He rested his head atop of the boy's and hummed lightly as the tele made broadcasts of predicted doom should the U.K. not find a way to reconcile with the E.U.

The pleasant atmosphere ended when Mr. Gray entered the room with a look of alarm.

The fact he didn't even acknowledge them and, instead, went straight to the window, was worrying.

As was his quiet but clearly uneasy, "Oh dear."

Chairs screeched back and they found themselves crowding near the glass pane for a view.

"What the devil?"

Apparently, Alistair and Texas had resumed their barbaric training regime.

But the longer Arthur watched, the more outrage he felt.

His brother was trying to land real blows on the lad!

Magic training his arse!

He needed to break that up immediately.

Arthur was through the halls and out the door and onto the porch and...was shocked to see Antonio standing there without intervening. His suprise nearly made him trip over poor Alfred.

He sidestepped him at the last possible moment and was just going down the steps when his arm was seized in an uncompromising grip.

"Let them fight," Alfred intoned imperiously.

The boy's expression was colder than any he'd been subjected to by the child in some time. And he was caught off guard by how disturbing that felt.

His first instinct was to reach out and soothe it away but it ran deeper than Arthur expected.

More than ice; it was something hard and immovable and cold.

" _ **Cold**_ — _ **cold**_ — _even to the heart—"_

Arthur hastily shook his head to clear it of Byron's _Manfred_ and tried to focus on the matter at hand.

* * *

Texas dodged a jab that could've broke his nose.

Their weapons had been abandoned in favor of hand-to-hand combat. Scotland had driven his claymore into the ground in frustration because it was too damn slow to keep up with Tex's knife and there were shallow teasing scratches cut through Alistair's shirt and reddening his arms.

Unfortunately, Texas got too cocky and not long after Scotland surrendered his sword for speed, Scot managed to disarm him.

It didn't matter though, Tex was better at brawling than knife fighting anyway. And the fact that he wasn't drunk meant his opponent couldn't count on slipping in a lucky shot.

He snickered as they circled one another.

Yeah, that Scottie could pack a punch! But Tex could take one. Hell, Tex could take several.

And there was something real pleasurable in seeing how that rankled the older nation.

It had unsettled plenty of foes before him too. To the point that Tex had learned how to play it to his utmost advantage.

It was an ace up his sleeve; he was way stronger than he looked and ten times as ornery.

Lean...and MEAN...

He gave another one of his infuriating, lazy, side-smile-smirks, the ones that always intimidated his opponents. The one that said: 'Yeah, I took your strongest hits. What else you got, mister? What else you got, cuz that ain't _near_ enough!'

Alistair's problem was he too used to being King of the Hill. Of winning a bout at the onset through might and skill.

It'd been too long since he met someone who could take what he dished and serve it back with more spice.

Tex and Al had fought too many impossible battles.

It never mattered how good you were; how fancy your footwork was and how many notches in your belt there were.

It was how long you could last.

And Alistair was tiring out.

Alistair went in to grapple with him, no doubt expecting his weight to give him the upper hand.

He felt a spike of elation as he heard Al laugh wickedly and taunt: "Bad move, Uncle Al! He's a wrangler! He wrangles things!"

Funny how he could go on and on about his cattle driving, rodeo ways and people still underestimated his strength. What? Did they think wrangling a neighbor's feisty bull when it wandered into your ranch was easy?

Sure, Alistair put him in a hell of a bind, wrapping around til they were like a pretzel.

And yeah, the Triangle Choke could've been a finishing move...on somebody else.

Somebody who wasn't him.

And yeah, some maneuvering and a spin would've been more conservative and what he'd have done if this had been a real honest to God fight because Hell, don't be flashy if you don't need to be, but this was Alistair.

And he wasn't just aiming to win.

He was aiming for the ego. And not just Scotland's...no...now that he had Al's blessing he could give 'em a real warning.

Cuz these Euros needed to get it through their thick heads that they weren't pathetic colonies anymore. They weren't anybody's castoffs anymore.

He wanted Papi to see it.

He wasn't the sniveling little debilucho, España left behind.

He sucked what air he could between his teeth. And it wasn't easy o'course but...he stood up and yeah, his windpipe didn't like the hold but the ring was small and he only had to move three steps over.

He couldn't even help the predatory grin spreading across his face as he heard Al chanting, "Power Bomb."

Why draw it out for his number one fan?

He slammed the older man down and during his opponent's stunned reaction following the landing, freed himself, and rolled the Scot out of the ring.

"Woooohoo!" his brother squealed. "Woo! The Few, the Proud, the MARINES!"

Al raced down the steps and into the ring and Tex grabbed his hands and put him into a spin, going faster and faster until his brother's feet left the ground and they sang "USA! USA!" and ignored the nations of the U.K. rushing past.

"Good God, is he alright?" England demanded.

"Get away," Scotland growled, trying to detangle himself from a concerned Wales.

"Did you feel anything break?" Northern Ireland asked. "Do we need to get you to h-"

"Get away. The lot of you. Away."

Tex set Alfred up on his shoulders, "Okay! It's time to celebrate."

"Texas, what did you do?" Hawaii yelled from the kitchen window. "Did you hurt him?!"

"Yeah, I did!"

"Do I need to call Stuart?!" Momilani shouted.

"Yeah! Let him know that I'm winning! And because I'm winning, it's time to make me-"

"I swear to God," Hawaii groused, "if you say 'sandwich' I'm gonna beat your-"

Tex spun on his heel to face her. "Tch. Like I'd let you...you and your penchant for pineapple...your weird ass grilled cheese sandwich…"

"Hey!"

"Wasn't even addressing **you** ," he scoffed.

She rolled her eyes.

" _ **AL**_ ," he emphasized.

"Yeah, Big Bro?" his brother chirped—all sunshine and smiley again, like he hadn't been a bloodthirsty little brute two minutes ago. God, he loved him.

"Al, I want pie!"

"Diner or scratch?"

"Oh Baby Bro, you are so funny. Ya know I'll take scratch given the option," Tex grinned.

"To the supermarket?!" Al declared.

"To the supermarket! Whoosh and away!" Tex ran them up into the house to get his truck's keys.

* * *

Alfred sang "The Streets of Laredo" while he wove dough strips into an impressive lattice because his big brother deserved the best and he was giving his all to ignore the kitchen's other occupant.

"He could've been seriously injured," Arthur seethed.

Alfred shrugged, "He shouldn't have underestimated Tex."

Arthur ran a hand through his hair. "And you...goading him on. Did you _**want**_ Texas to-to-actually-"

He set the lattice over the pie and began fitting it. "It was an insult for Tex to sandbag like that. And...I couldn't let you guys think so little of him. I mean, even if he could've totally used it against you later. I...I just can't take hearing you guys talk down to him like he was an amateur."

Arthur opened and closed his mouth several times before murmuring quietly, "I...I don't think I fully believe that was at the heart of your reasoning."

Damn their stupid connection. Either Alfred was losing his edge on the whole mental shielding thing or Arthur's game in that arena was improving with an impressive, if eerie, speed.

He had to stay one step ahead of the old man.

He pressed the ends of the lattice strips against the pie's rim. He then began sealing them with the bottom pastry, imagining the ends to be like his connection to Arthur.

Because yeah, maybe there was a little bit of him that wanted to stick it to them because they just kept butting into his and Tex's plans.

And why couldn't they understand that they just needed time alone and it was safer if they just backed off until they could handle this stupid gate thing!

They'd already come to the rescue enough, it was time to leave the ball in their court.

They weren't helpless.

He could do it.

He could open the gate by himself.

He'd closed it himself.

That had to be proof he could do it.

Had to be.

He curled the dough, tighter and tighter.

He heard Arthur make a soft gasp. "Stop...doing that."

"Doing what?" he asked, feigning ignorance.

"Alfred, I don't like that," Arthur breathed out heavily. "And I know you're doing it on purpose now. Stop. When you...it makes you disappear. I...it _**hurts**_ me."

Alfred's fingers hesitated and he finished the pie up with less zeal. It wasn't supposed to hurt him. It was just supposed to...block him.

He eased up and Arthur released a breath and sagged against the counter. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Son...I really do not appreciate this 'Us versus Them' mentality of yours."

"..." Alfred began crimping the edge of the pie. He would've appreciated having this conversation after he was done baking because bad feelings could sour a meal. He remembered being warned that it was a spell anybody could cast and it could sicken the eaters because it spoiled the ingredients.

Good thing his love was strong enough to dispel the negativity and he knew the pie would be edible.

With pie in hand, he descended his stepladder.

He blinked and looked up as Arthur blocked him.

Tired green eyes were fixed on him. "Tell me. Tell me what else I can do. Because I don't know. I don't know what more I can do for you when you're...like this. I don't understand. I'm trying. But this...yo-yo-ing...sometimes you're so close and then...you act like this and I...talk to me. Please."

"..."

"Alfred? What can I do?"

"Well, you can get out of my way. I need the oven next and you're standing in front of it."

* * *

Alfred chewed at his lip. He'd gone to lie down in his room after the glaze was added and the buzzer rang and the pie was finally cooling and Tex was barbecuing dinner to celebrate his victory.

Alfred had lied and said he was taking a power nap but...he was really taking a self-given time out.

Cuz he seriously needed to chill.

God, he could be such a jerk sometimes and he couldn't even blame the Hex for it.

He hadn't meant to snap at Arthur like that. It came out before he was even thinking. That was happening with a frequency that was alarming. Alfred had long prided himself on his self-control. Learning how to smile through tirades, shrug off criticisms, and tune out others' negativity had long been some of his most cherished skills.

Or maybe…

That wasn't him at all.

Well, crap.

Now that the Hex was gone, it was up to him again to manage his emotions and he was sucking pretty hard at the whole composure thing.

There just wasn't any ice in him anymore.

Crap…

Crapcrapcrap.

His mouth made an 'o' of surprise.

He _**had**_ been pretty hotheaded in his Revolutionary days, hadn't he?

All the nostalgic whimsy he attached to that golden era and he forgot that part.

How the hell did he forget that?

And trust that to be the first thing that returned to him in full force!?

To have fissures in his sense of self-possession that went off like landmines at the slightest prodding…

Yeah, England was a natural born button pusher and liked to get in his face but it didn't warrant reactions like that. Especially when he wasn't really earning it.

The worst part was feeling that flicker of genuine hurt from the other end. He was getting more and more attuned to it.

It was easier to dismiss when he thought Arthur was doing it deliberately to guilt trip him into doing what he wanted and Alfred despised being manipulated…but…

But he knew now that Arthur was actively trying to shield him from the majority of it.

It wasn't that the old man was dangling it…it was that Alfred was looking for it.

Like a blood scent that hounds traced through the marshes…

Which made him feel…uneasy…

Did he really want to make his father bleed?

When did he get so vindictive?

He turned on his side.

No.

He'd always been vindictive.

Tex always said, rather gleefully, that Alfred had a streak of mean as deep as the Grand Canyon.

The question was…why did he suddenly care that he was?

Wasn't a little bit of spite necessary for a hero to survive hero-ing?

Because it took some meanness to push on when strength failed and see a mission to its bitter end...to see to it that the bad guy—

He shook his head.

But England wasn't an enemy anymore.

In fact, it was seeming more and more like Arthur had never intended to be...

He'd been and continued to be bossy and abrasive and annoying and heavy-handed but—

There were two polite knocks.

"It's not locked," Al called softly.

Arthur opened the door and stepped in.

"Dinner is ready," he stated neutrally.

And just as he'd felt a flash flood of vitriol in the kitchen, he was now swamped with contrition.

"I'm sorry about…about earlier."

Arthur blinked.

Alfred shifted, yeah, he wasn't sure which part he was sorry for either. It was...kinda mixed?

The Briton's expression remained stern but he nodded, "I accept your...apology."

Alfred winced as he could practically hear through their bond 'half-assed as it is.'

"Now, dinner is ready."

Alfred didn't move.

Did he want to start a fight with the old man? It kinda felt like he did. Except he didn't. Except he did?

Did he?

Even though it was obvious by now that Arthur wouldn't rise to the bait.

And it grated on him because it removed his ability to justify—

He sat up in alarm.

Justify?

Justify what?

Acting up?

He stared at his feet.

What was up with him?

Was it stress? PTSD? Random jerkass flare up because...history?

Did he really have to get a counselor to make it go away? He never had to before. The Hex just...packed it away in a...well...in a fridge of semi-forgetfulness. That he was really starting to miss.

"Should we start without you?"

"…right," he nodded absently, not taking in Arthur's head tilt at the odd answer to a Yes or No query.

Whenever he got too gooey with his father land, a sense of guilt and embarrassment and something...would come over him.

He used to think it was because he was just upholding sound policies because England was England and would take advantage.

Or some outsider would observe the weakness and exploit it.

Or...or maybe he just didn't like acknowledging the connection between them that he just couldn't rid himself of and—

He used to joke that being too chummy was unpatriotic.

He used to think that.

He…he still…felt…

He looked around dazedly at Tex's shelf of knicknacks and tried to orient himself against a sudden inexplicable whiff of burning timber.

Why? Why did he think that?

Arthur's mouth was moving but he couldn't concentrate well enough to understand the words.

The smoke was making him dizzy.

 _The fireplace was experiencing a bad downdraft but he didn't want to embarrass himself by coughing in such a tense atmosphere._

" _Witch. Nation. Monster. I don't give a damn what you are, Lieutenant. But you're going to be loyal to us," Colonel Harris growled, a gleam in his eyes that put a chill and a tremble in the young nation. "You're going to be loyal or so help me I'll sink you in a grave so deep, you'll never trouble us again."_

Gooseflesh rose on his arms.

With detached interest, he registered that yes…yes, he'd been afraid of that human. He was the first.

And that in and of itself was frightening. He'd never been truly afraid of any of them before. Especially, not one of his own. Not even Sarah he realized idly.

 _But Bertram Harris was a fierce man._

"Alfred?" His name came in but so soft and staticky, it was like an old radio channel. Remember those? Remember when they were cutting edge?

Remember a lifetime ago when—

 _Alfred F. Kirkland was determined to win the colonel's respect. He just needed time. Time always abetted him. During the Revolution, plenty of men had doubted his capabilities. Time wore them down or opened them up._

 _He'd lost count of all the men that had remarked upon first meeting him that he wasn't special._

 _He wasn't._

 _Not in the usual sense._

 _The only thing that let him stand apart was his determination._

 _Anyone else would have let constant failure dissuade them._

 _Not him._

 _And bit by bit he'd improve at whatever it was; from violin to musket to anything really._

 _It was a belligerent quality that ultimately endeared him to most humans...just not right away._

 _Colonel Harris would learn to regard him as an asset. Would learn that his determination was limitless._

"So you're remembering that horrible man?" Fingers brushed fringe away from his eyes.

"I…I..."

 _Eventually, he just wanted to gain his trust...so it would stop…_

 _It felt like the Salem Witch Trials all over again. Only instead of being accused for witchery he was being questioned for his loyalties._

 _The flames in the office's fireplace looked absolutely wicked._

 _And he wondered with a dull sort of dread how much worse burning a witch was rather than hanging one._

" _How?! How can I or any officer ANY citizen depend on you, when you wear THIS around your neck!" He grabbed the locket and pulled so hard the chain snapped._

 _His neck stung. Contrary, to whatever humans seemed to think. Nations very much felt the same twinges of pain they did. He clamped a hand on the spot and winced at the rapidly forming bruise._

" _I did not say 'at ease,' Lieutenant. Return to attention-"_

 _Alfred glared. He didn't care! And said so and received a vicious backhand and a curse of "blatant insubordination." Another officer wrote the offense down._

 _Ridiculous. How dare he be treated thus!?_

" _Tell me why you wear this? Now! Speak!"_

 _It was a locket with portraits of Arthur and Mathieu._

" _They are my family," he spat. Incredulous that he was even being subjected to this. "Mathieu, my brother. And...my father."_

 _He was the embodiment of the nation! That his loyalties could even be questioned was the pinnacle of absurdity._

" _Delusions," the man muttered and shook his head contemptuously. "Lieutenant. All delusions. Lies that you tell yourself to give an illusion of normalcy which you, by the essence of your existence, have no right to shelter in. Come now, United States, accept this. For your own sake. For ours."_

 _Alfred bristled. So it was this again. He gritted his teeth and hissed, "My name is Alfred-"_

" _You're the United States of America. You_ _ **don't**_ _have a family. You_ _ **don't**_ _have a real name. What you have...is a responsibility." He paced in front of Alfred, a hard military clip in the sound of the footfalls. "And by Heaven or Hell, I will see that you live up to it. Now, tell me why you have betrayed us?" He shook the locket._

" _I haven't the slightest idea of what you're going on about."_

" _No? What about this then?" Harris pulled out an envelope from a folder on a desk behind him. "Well, Lieutenant?"_

 _Alfred's mouth went dry as he looked on an opened envelope penned in his own hand from himself to his father._

" _Well?"_

" _..."_

" _Shall I read a line or two to refresh your memory? Yes, I think I will. 'My dearest, first, and foremost founding Father,'" Harris then broke off in an aside, "quite a mouthful, Lieutenant." He took in another breath and read off in an affected voice, "'I write to you in desperation. If you can no longer look on me with affection or pity, than I must depend on your sense of honor. I beseech you, hear me out. Meet me in the meadow where first we-'"_

" _I remember all too well," Alfred forced out. "There's no need for this spectacle."_

 _The man gave him a sneering smile, "A shame. It deserves an audience. You might've made a fair playwright, Lieutenant. You have a gift for grandiosity and farce. I was most entertained."_

" _..."_

" _I think you'll find it far easier to confess before me than a jury, Lieutenant. I don't think a jury would be near as compassionate of your crimes. Fraternizing with the enemy during war time. Directly. To England himself no doubt."_

 _Alfred watched despondently as his letter, his only real hope of guidance out of this...this mess, was tossed into the fire._

* * *

"So he had some conditioning, is that really a surprise?" Alistair raised an eyebrow and pointed with a half-eaten rib. "I think it's kind of a relief to hear about it to tell yeh the truth. He should not get so excited about Flag Day. I've seen him, s'not natural. I mean, c'mon. He adds new patriotic holidays all the time. _This_ kind of explains why."

Arthur's mouth remained in a grim line and he poked at the ribs on his plate.

Alistair shifted from his place on the couch and winced.

Cue Rhys immediately abandoning his meal and returning back over to fuss.

Alistair tried and failed to wave him away.

Rhys applied another ice pack to Alistair's back. "I warned you. I warned you not to tempt fate, brawd bach, and-"

The Scotsman rolled his eyes. "Aye, aye, belt up now."

His elder brother deliberately poked one of his bruises and regretted it when Alistair hissed. He scrambled to apply ice to that spot. "Mae'n ddrwg gen i."

"I will be alright! Back off!" he snarled.

Curse his luck, shouting didn't work. And it brought the Ginger over.

Reilley walked over and sat on the floor, leaning against the cushion Alistair was on and talking while chewing. "Yeh just don't get it, Alis. I'm the Handsome One, Rhys is the Smart One, Arthur is the Crazy One, and you're the Strong One. Yer the anchor. The rock. Yeh aren't s'posed to fall."

"Like Hell, _you're_ the Handsome One. And-and I didn't...I ain't felled. I'll tell yeh what yeh all really are: bampot, crackpot, and fusspot. I'm the jackpot—the only one with looks, strength, and sense. Look, I jus' underestimated the lil' Spanish brat." He smiled in spite of himself. "He was tougher than I thought."

At his brothers' looks, he shrugged. "Wha? I'm glad he's the one watchin' wee Al's back when I can't. I just need to sharpen him up is all."

Arthur's eyebrow twitched. "Wot?"

Alistair rose up onto his elbows. "Didn't yeh see him, Artie? That much raw strength and he can't end the match sooner? Ack, his form was all sloppy. All over the place. That might be fine for some ol' saloon but it ain't good enough for someone watching over my nephew. I'll whip him into shape. Discipline and drills'll do. It'll also help his magic. Repetition always worked well for me. And he reminds me a bit of meself-"

Rhys glowered at him, "Because he's a reckless idgit?"

Alistair grinned and looked over to where Tex was quite obviously retelling the fight in his own colorful point of view. He used exaggerated antics and spoke loudly and excitedly in Spanish while Puerto Rico indulged him and Spain...held his tongue and smiled tightly.

Because...Spain was an excellent knife fighter and had been noticeably displeased when Tex was disarmed so easily.

Scotland had snuck a quick look at the Spaniard's face as he did it. And he took it as a given that if the fight got too nasty, he may well find that knife re-entering the fray and guided by a more veteran hand.

Still, the lad had potential.

And he was getting why his nephew liked him so much.

"Yeah. A reckless idgit with training wheels."

Reilley smirked, "Dare you four pounds to issue him a kilt as part of his training."

Alistair gingerly stretched. "Triple it and I'll present it to him in front of Spain."

Because that would get the Spaniard's goat; if he wasn't as possessive of his offspring as England was of his...he was damn close.

And because it annoyed Tex, it made him work harder to try and prove his autonomy.

It was a win all the way around.

"Done."

"Done."

They shook on it.

* * *

Read & Review Please! : D


	38. Chapter 38

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or the lyrics to the Child's Ballads which are in the Public Domain having been in existence prior to Child's collecting of them and the fact that Francis James Child died over 100 years ago: _Fine Flowers In the Valley_ and _The Cruel Mother_. I also don't own Bazzini's _La Ronde des Lutins_. Or _Ol' Susanna, She'll Be Comin' 'round the Mountain, On Springfield Mountain, Buffalo Gals (Won't Ya Come Out Tonight), Skype,_ or the T.V. show, _Naked and Afraid._

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Music centered chapter. Mention of Colonial Games. Grim songs. Drama.

 **Special Warning:** If you look up/listen to _The Cruel Mother_. It. Is. Dark. Fullstop. It's offshoot, _Fine Flowers In the Valley_ is also dark...just not quite to the same degree.

 **AN:** The chapter that wouldn't come and then wouldn't stop growing. Thank you for your reviews and for waiting! Real life kept throwing me curve balls while I tried to finish this up. Hope you enjoy!

 **Chapter 38: Plan Overkill**

* * *

Alfred put more steak sauce and ketchup onto his paper plate as he explained his recent discovery: that his hex hadn't been all bad like he'd been led to believe.

It had worked a lot like a valve.

"So you'll dip into Revolutionary Ranting Mode at the drop of a hat?" Tex smiled around a mouthful of meat.

"It's not funny," he insisted as his brother snickered.

Tex chewed and swallowed, "Well, I _love_ the Tax speech, so I'm good hearing it over and over and-"

Alfred gave him a soft, playful shove.

Tex straightened his hat. "Yeah, I guess you _have_ had a shorter fuse lately. Mostly, I just keep noticing you flip flopping on decisions. You usually stick to your guns once you've made up your mind. But..."

Alfred nodded reluctantly. "...it's harder to make up my mind about...everything. Stuff that was easy to organize is...it's like...everybody's got feelings now and I have to pencil it all into my equations and then erase and then pencil in and if I go 'hell with this' and use a permanent mark, everyone's all 'oh noes, you can't use a sharpie, dude.' It makes planning...a lot harder."

Tex made a sympathetic noise and then shrugged.

Alfred looked around, noting that they were the only ones actually using the table.

Sure, it was kind of a lax meal with no real enforced etiquette because Texas declared that paper plates were gonna reign supreme on their last two days at home because he'd done enough dishwashing to make him throw up. And that there'd be more dishwashing while they were camping. And for good measure, he threw in that this part of being a host sucked which amused Alfred.

His brother had only really done a quarter of said washing. The rest being accomplished predominantly by Spain with intervals of Wales, Canada, and Northern Ireland pitching in.

Alfred wasn't sure what it was about him handling knives or hot pans and setting them in the sink, but it made them all squirmy. And every time he tried to do his part in the clean up, they'd swoop in and relieve him of said duty.

And so, all the rules were being broken now. But rather than being glad at the breach of formality like he thought he would, he felt a little...odd. Maybe he was getting used to having a full table when he sat down to eat?

Arthur was in the next room over with his brothers, Mattie was with Hawaii watching T.V., and Spain was sitting with Puerto Rico out on the porch. And he was pretty sure Mr. Gray was eating and Skyping with a family member even in spite of the time zone difference.

"I remembered more about Colonel Creep Harris," he mentioned.

"Yeah…?"

"Dad was along for the ride down Memory Lane...I know he's telling his brothers right now. I wish he'd let me choose what gets told. I mean, I'm the one it happened to."

Tex sipped his can of Dr. Pepper and then said, "Valid."

It wasn't a lot of fun relaying the fragments, but it was kinda nice that Tex hadn't reacted the way Arthur did. His dad had been super intense and concerned. And while Alfred was getting better at differentiating Arthur's I'm-Angry-At-You face versus I'm Angry-On-Your-Behalf, it was mostly because today...he'd made a breakthrough discovery.

Arthur's eye color changed depending on his mood.

And sure Alfred had heard about that in the scientific community due to iris constriction and light scattering and what-not...but it was crazy to see it happening in front of him.

The hardest part though...was that it required looking right at him. He usually looked away when Arthur was angry, period.

Cuz it sucked listening to the fury in his voice and then seeing it magnified in his face.

There was no denying it.

His dad's eyes darkened. In scenario one, when he was angry at Alfred (like he'd been when he entered the bedroom), they would deepen into a green so dark it was murky. But they stayed green. In scenario two, (courtesy of Colonel Creep) they went a blue-green jade; it made Alfred think of angry waves crashing.

Knowing Arthur was a water power...yeah...maybe it _**was**_ a little dumb to piss off an ocean...and the fact that he did honest to God make a habit of poking him deliberately…because sometimes it just amused him...wasn't super smart.

Alfred took another bite of his meal.

He wondered if his eyes did anything crazy according to his emotions.

He fidgeted, waiting for Tex to continue.

"Well?" Al prodded.

"I really hope you decked him at some point. I hope your next memory is Revolutionary You going 'Aw, hell no.' And just, ya know...cussing him out and breaking his nose, opening a can of whoop-ass. Ka-chsshh." He mimicked opening a soda.

Alfred's eyebrows twitched. "Cuz it would've been totally cool in the 1800s to diss my superior officer?"

"Yup. Ya know, the way Modern You totally would."

Alfred broke out into laughter and had to wipe away the spit that resulted which got Tex to laugh harder and tease him with a well-timed, "Say it, don't spray it!"

And after all that, rather than hinting (as Arthur had done) that it might be time for Alfred to consider therapy (if not in response to various other issues) than to combat the aggressive conditioning he'd been subjected to...

Instead, on finishing his plate and that train of conversation, Tex cheered, "Time for pie!"

* * *

Alfred's feet were getting sore.

He was kinda done with all the preparations and he just wanted the trip over. Gate open. Promise to UnSeelie King accomplished. Happy May Day...maybe...if the holiday didn't drown in family drama on account of the other tasks on Alfred's To Do List.

He was enduring a long shopping spree that lasted from morning until afternoon at R.E.I. as their whole group selected appropriate gear.

Arthur was obsessed with getting him vests.

First, a top of the line safety vest, even though Alfred had a solid decade of experience as a National Guard. Yeah, Tex had him beat in years served in that service, but Al liked to think he took the helicopter ride over with far more composure than Tex did. At least less swearing. That should count. It wasn't that Tex was scared of heights. He wasn't. He just didn't enjoy helicopter rides.

Probably cuz of Nam...they'd kinda been in a few crashes that seriously underscored Tex's faith in pilots that weren't Al.

The next vest, was a poofy, insulated camping vest with a scarcity of pockets.

When Alfred pointed that out and that the vest Arthur was choosing for himself had way more, Arthur pointblank asked him what he thought he'd need that Arthur, his uncles, Mattie, Tex, Spain, Hawaii, and Puerto Rico wouldn't think of. He chose a different route then, complaining that it was too warm of a vest.

"I'm gonna fry in that," Alfred whined. "I want this one."

"No camo," Arthur ruled.

"I can buy it if I want to. Tex and I are gonna go hunting-"

"Wot? No, this is a family trip. We'll be doing relaxing things, like fishing or reading."

"Pbbbft. We're going hunting and hiking and-"

"Then all the more reason to want this one," Arthur shook his choice. "No one can mistake you for wildlife in this."

That was true. And he wouldn't catch any game either.

It was a bright fire hydrant red. And under other circumstances would be deemed gaudy by his parent. But because it would pretty much scream Alfred's location from any distance, that was the one that stayed in Arthur's basket.

The problem was the cardinal red shade which, while identical to the American flag's red stripes, was bare of much needed stars and blue and white.

It was vivid as a lobsterback.

And Arthur mentioned offhand, he and Mattie would match. Alfred looked over to see his brother considering a red vest (of a more adult design for himself).

And he felt duped. He was being manhandled into the Commonwealth. Hell no.

He felt a strong pull to call his old man out except, when he reached out to him along their bond, he found Arthur wasn't associating the vest with that at all.

This wasn't a mini-me moment.

The only thing that kept radiating from Arthur was relief that it was brightly colored…

And it could've been any hue…

Heck, Arthur was seriously considering buying an LED lighted vest in addition to this one for nighttime wear.

Because…

Arthur lived with a very real, ever-present fear that he'd lose Alfred.

He tried very hard to contain it, but it leaked in lots of ways. Because there were lots of ways to be lost. And Arthur was determined to steer him from them all.

And this…this literal "lost" where Alfred could fall behind, or wander off, or be lured away was one of the easiest ones to prevent, with a little precaution.

So Arthur felt justified in launching _Plan: Overkill_.

He was aware that Alfred was going to resist.

Duh.

But what surprised Alfred was that Arthur was intimately cognizant that it made him a hypocrite.

And that it pricked his old man's heart, deep.

Shadowy glimpses of Albion running amok in woods without a care for _**anyone's**_ authority gave off a bittersweet pain.

Because while he was very proud of his villages, towns, cities, castles, history…

He loved wild, untamable, green spaces, maybe never quite as much as the sea which held a special unshakable hold on him, but…

Meadows, fields, fens, hills, valleys…

Woods…

He loved woodlands with a sense of wonder that had sprung in early childhood.

But as much as he loved the woods and the lore and the magic.

And that love ran deep.

It was tempered by hard-won experience; he knew full well of dangers natural and supernatural, man and creature, that prowled in such terrains.

And he couldn't regale Alfred with all the adventures of his own youth...and encourage him to go and make his own.

And there was a shimmery, elusive, knightly disapproval in Arthur for feeling that way which made Alfred's heart skip a beat.

Because that piece felt gallant and noble and disciplined and bright—a lover of and enforcer of all that was right and just and-

It moved beyond reach like the shining fish he was too slow to catch in a river.

But rather than feeling a disappointed Osha looming over him, he was back with Father.

Father, who even in times of happiness, could be melancholic. Who was well-worn and realistic often to the point of pessimism.

In him, there was grief mixed in with fear...but both were drowned by a heavy, viscous love that let Arthur be a hypocrite.

Arthur deliberately sent him an image of ancient greenery; a tunnel made magnificent by huge-trunked Yew trees intersecting—each one was thousands of years old…and brimming with things that lurked in their shadows and roots and hollows.

And it all made Alfred suddenly feel very...inexperienced...young...small…recent in England's timeline.

And he didn't like that.

No.

He crossed his arms.

That was a lens through which Arthur saw him and he rejected it.

Arthur chuckled and pet his hair, a hum of pleasure thrumming in him and Alfred sensed he didn't mind Alfred's rebuke. He was too ecstatic that Alfred had done the seeking for a change.

"No," Arthur stated abruptly. "I wasn't looking to dress you in my colors. There's a blue one also. Would you like that one better?"

As Tex would tease, he'd been as open as a front door during a tornado warning.

All the while he'd been reading Arthur, Arthur had been reading him back.

He plucked at the red fabric. It would...be okay. It was just a vest.

"Sweet, let's get the blue one." He whisked the red away and set the highlighter blue version down in its stead.

He tried really hard to stay composed after that. "D-dude, I can't believe you're...g-getting so much warm clothing for us. I-I mean, you think 80 degrees will melt you like a snowman...I still can't believe you conquered deserts. Did they just like airdrop you there? I mean-"

Arthur rolled his eyes, "I remember the area."

Alfred tensed.

Great.

That meant more Revolutionary War memories and a rehashing of lingering territory disputes that lasted until 1784.

He half-expected to get that cool, distant look of contempt that always cropped up with such nostalgia.

England's gaze did seem distant and his voice was hard but…

With their bond open and gentle hands rubbing his shoulders, he knew it wasn't actually him being remembered or condemned.

"The frost of winter lingers there," England stated softly. "The water _**will**_ be cold. We can rent wetsuits there or we can purchase them now."

"...feel like a sissy...getting all this stuff. We're s'posed to be roughing it and-"

"No, we are camping. Not _roughing it._ There is nothing _sissy_ about preventing cold shock. This isn't that stupid _Naked and Afraid_ show of yours-"

Alfred stopped in his tracks, threw his head back, and stared up at his dad. "Oh my God...you watch that."

Arthur went bright red. Redder than the stupid vest had been.

Alfred pointed at him. "And you say Francis is a perv."

Arthur gently moved the accusing hand away. "That frog IS a pervert."

Alfred gave him a look.

"I...I-I take comfort in knowing there's still some primitive fortitude in humankind."

"Riiiiight."

Alfred noted that Arthur felt different after that. He'd rushed away to Rhys and after talking to him, Alfred felt some kind of side door close in their bond. When Arthur went to help Mathieu choose granola bars for their group, Alfred saw his chance to approach Rhys who was lurking near the sunglasses and trying on ones that didn't suit him at all. The Welshman's mouth puckered into almost comically pursed lips and then surrendered into a slight smirk as he replied to Alfred's inquiry.

"Yes, your father wasn't...aware of all that could be shared if the connection was obtusely open. I've given him some advice."

Alfred put his hands on his hips. "How come you give him advice for shielding and not me?"

Hazel eyes sized him up. "I will in time."

Alfred felt indignant at the dismissal, "But!"

"When you stop having so many terrors whilst asleep or awake, I will be glad to help grant you more privacy. But if I can't be certain that you are _**well**_...and only mean to have it as a method of hiding injury or deceiving us…"

The Welshman gave him a hard look.

Alfred tried not to give anything away.

Rhys released a long breath. "I know you and Texas are up to something and I understand you both need time to each other. It's...presumptuous for us to elevate ourselves in your lives to this degree." He looked over to where England was now arguing with Spain over the First Aid kit the Spaniard was holding, while Texas shoved his hat down over his face in embarrassment. "What has been a short time for us, has been a very long time for you."

Alfred frowned. Pretty much half his life, thank you!

"Is it not that way for you when dealing with Molossia?"

Alfred fidgeted, "Well...he is younger than Tex and me...we found him during a Gold Rush in Nevada...what would be Nevada. We had a mission...so, he's younger than us but...older than a lot of the other micronations even though his 'official founder' was pretty recent. There were lots of…" Alfred hesitated here "...impromptu towns in the Wild West."

Rhys raised an eyebrow.

Alfred didn't feel comfortable laying out the details of Molossia's origins without him there. He still wasn't...entirely sure Molossia knew what the women, who took him in and used him as a servant of sorts, did as their profession or what they smoked as a hobby.

He was just a tiny little tot who was sent to fetch water and kindling. And who, surprisingly enough, ended up majorly helping Al and Tex when they got into a tough spot. And then America couldn't bear to leave him behind. It would've been unheroic.

But he refused to lose his train of thought or the conversation's direction. "Anyways, you were saying about presumptuousness?"

Rhys nodded, "I know it can be grating but…"

"But I just have to deal?" That seemed to be the constant consensus and his frustration just kept building.

Rhys shrugged, "Communicate rather than confront, if possible. Arthur's...excited to be back in your life. But I fear it prompts him to be..."

They watched him scrutinizing the ingredients on a tub of sunblock.

"Overzealous."

And that made Alfred feel defeated. Because that was a gentle word Tex used about Alfred whenever he fucked things up but really did have the best of intentions at heart.

* * *

After lunch, Scotland, Northern Ireland, and Spain went out to exchange their rentals—so they could comfortably seat everyone and their stuff.

Two vans were the plan.

Stuart would come by in the morning to drive Mr. Gray to the airport and then house-sit for Tex.

Everything was coming together but...

Alfred wanted to do something nice for Gray. The elderly man had done a lot, was always supportive, and never seemed to get enough thanks.

He hadn't really been able to show him any sites or attractions or buy him anything of worth.

The old gentleman turned down his apology when he told him as much. It wasn't easy for the man to kneel down, but he did, and he pulled Alfred into a hug and told him his company was more than enough.

So Alfred sought out his old violin and planned an evening of music as a treat. This violin was one Arthur had given him ages ago, but he usually kept it at Tex's.

First, as an absolute backup because sometimes music was a good means of scrounging up money for travel and supplies years ago…especially when confrontations with highwaymen didn't go right. And maybe because seeing it usually made him a little sad and his Virginia colonial already had enough keepsakes that did that.

Then, he held onto it in case Molossia developed any interest, but the micronation's childhood passed without that happening.

Then, it was an antique that could be worth a lot of money but...could still be destroyed in a convenient tornado and then Alfred wouldn't be responsible for what had befallen it.

And now...now it would be useful again. Old as it was...Alfred had taken care to service it often through the years. Maybe some of the other items from Arthur had been left to disrepair over the years, but this was a useful item. It deserved upkeep.

He was more than a little out of practice and there was a difference in sound quality between a child-sized and an adult-sized instrument but…

Hopefully, Gray could still appreciate the effort.

Yeah, he had his newer violin here with him as well...but...he'd noticed when playing it that the size kept him from hitting the notes perfectly and he could only compensate so much for it.

Still, it was a little weird to purposely choose this one. Not that it was in bad shape by any means, it was just...like putting on old shoes. Comfortable but noticeably frayed. And he knew Arthur would recognize it instantly or soon after.

It still had _**Alfred Faer Kirkland**_ carved into it.

He snuck out to the fields for a practice session to tune it up.

Bazzini's La Ronde des Lutins got him all warmed up and it was fun to dance to and by the time he finished, he felt confident in his abilities to give Gray a good show.

He floundered slightly on his return to the house when he swore he saw some flicker of movement in a shadow under the porch and hopped over the stairs completely to hurry back inside. He was in the kitchen ready to bowl Arthur over before he reasoned that it had probably been a mole or squirrel or something.

He was just paranoid because of his interactions with Grym.

He was in time to see the final pieces of his sweet Virginia cherry pie being divvied out.

God, he was proud of that recipe and it killed his flash of terror about the shadow. He'd learned how to make that pie when he was super little and needed side money and boy did it deliver! Won every contest he ever set it in and sold out every time he lined his bakery shelves with them.

He watched Mathieu take a thin slice (cuz he was Canadian and didn't wanna be the jerk who finished it off). It was kind of an irritating habit because it signaled that Alfred wasn't allowed to polish off any of his brother's food when he visited up north. If there was only one cookie left in a jar, or on a platter, or in a carton. It got to stay there or Mathieu would notice and remark on Alfred's appetite.

Arthur seemed to be on the hunt for a snack as well, though his back was to Alfred at the moment.

Mathieu offered to get him the remaining slice, but Arthur waved it away with a grimace, "No thank you, my lad. It's far too sweet for my tastes."

And that let the air out of his balloon.

It took an awful lot not to hiss 'sorry I didn't burn it to friggin' charcoal to better suit your "tastes," old man.'

Because that would've been way too harsh.

Instead, he managed a civil, if somewhat cool, "I'm sorry you didn't like it."

"N-no need to be sorry!" Arthur started and whipped around, "It's just very sweet I-I just can't eat sweets the way I could when I was younger. It's not the recipe, it's me, dear. I know it's hard to believe, but someday you too may find yourself unable to-"

But it was hard not to think about a pile of blue ribbons and beaming customers and several centuries' worth of strangers' praise. It figured that if there had to be one person in the whole wide world who didn't like it...it _would_ be…

"Were you practicing, poppet? I thought I heard my little phenom-"

Alfred jerked his head in a nod, dodged a hair ruffle, and sped in search of Texas...who thought all his desserts were the best desserts on the goddamn planet.

* * *

Mathieu was three steps and about twenty seconds too late. "Al, I enjoyed the…" his brother was already gone "...pie."

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, "Bugger! May as well have said it with a damned bullhorn."

Mathieu shifted uneasily.

Because...yeah, he hurt Al's feelings badly and Mathieu didn't even need a magical bond to have picked that up.

Arthur however didn't let it pull him down and he set his sights back on Mathieu. "How did your session go? I...believe you said you had one early this morning? Did you let her know you'll be on holiday? I daresay the reception may be spotty if you try to contact her during the trip."

"Yes, I told her I'd Skype with her if possible."

"Good. Good."

"...Meegan thinks I'm making a lot of progress."

"That's wonderful, my lad."

"She wants me to keep a journal. Every day I'm to write down something I…" He felt his cheeks warm. "I-I feel...proud of myself for accomplishing."

Arthur smiled kindly and gave his shoulder a squeeze, "Well, that should be an easy feat for you."

Mathieu felt warmth spread through him.

Arthur bustled around to make them some tea. He mentioned over his shoulder with a slight huff and an amused smile, "My counselor keeps suggesting family counseling in addition to anger management. Can you imagine me trying to drag Alistair to that? Reilley would try to dominate the whole thing and I doubt Rhys would talk at all. I swear it's why everyone forgets about the Welsh. They can be so reserved, one forgets they're in the room."

Canada could empathize.

As they sipped their beverages and Mathieu made mention of Tex's no dishes rule, Arthur scoffed, "Pish posh, when I want a cuppa, I have one. I'll hand wash them after. Don't fret."

They shared coping techniques their counselors championed: meditation, deep breathing, food choices, and hobbies.

He swore he caught sight of Alfred watching them from the hinge of a door, but when he stood up and gave it a sharper glance, there was nothing there.

Arthur blinked at him.

Mathieu sheepishly said he'd had a leg cramp and then sat back down. "I haven't really gotten around to sketching in a while, so I think...I think that would be a good outlet."

Green eyes brightened. "Do you have supplies?"

"...um...not...not professional ones."

Arthur nodded resolutely, "We'll go out, then."

And they did. Tex let them borrow his truck and it was...wonderful having Arthur follow through on a promise…and…getting to have time together...just the two of them.

"I never had much talent," Arthur commented ruefully as he inspected different tubes of watercolor paint. "I always wanted to learn but…"

"Practice..."

Green eyes narrowed. "Practice and talent, boy. Don't sell yourself short."

Mathieu smiled again and knew Arthur was indulging him when they made rounds through the entire store despite Mathieu worrying aloud about the Briton's still recovering leg.

He offered to pay for everything in Mathieu's basket, but backed down after being quietly rejected twice. Arthur had already purchased him far more than was reasonable during their R.E.I. shopping spree. He knew his guardian wanted to make things equal between his charges now that he'd been made aware of Mathieu's feelings.

He conceded to letting Arthur search on his phone for coupons to apply.

On their return to the ranch house, they heard Tex tuning up his piano. Reilley informed them that after dinner, the Americans were going to serenade Mr. Gray as a show of gratitude.

They stepped into the family room with the instrument in question and Mathieu felt Arthur tense. Alfred was standing on the top of the old tack piano with his violin and bow.

Arthur noticeably swallowed the deeply, ingrained, automatic, 'Geroff that NOW!' that was usually issued to Australia.

Alfred looked at them both with an expression that suggested he was waiting for them to dare comment on his audacity.

Instead, Mathieu complimented them on their kind plan. He was certain Gray would appreciate it.

Tex grinned and nodded his thanks and reached up to swat Alfred's leg to follow suit.

He reluctantly gave a small, hard, resentful "Thanks" as he eyed Mathieu and then Arthur.

Tex then practiced a medley of tunes from various pieces. As he went along he asked Alfred, "Think you can still handle the chords on _Ol' Susannah_? So's I can play my guitar?"

"Of course. But I'll have to be up here-"

"I dunno Al, you sure you can reach-"

"Yeah! I...I have to...I only know it backwards-"

Arthur positively squirmed when the two tested it out.

Tex grabbed his guitar.

Al sat down and then stretched out on his belly across the piano top and reached down to do the chords.

Arthur's resolve broke and after two measures was crossing the room.

Alfred was slipping.

Tex's strumming faltered…probably because of Arthur's expression.

Al was about to fall off-

Mathieu winced.

Scotland caught Alfred and hefted him up by the scruff of his shirt.

If anything, Arthur seemed even more on edge.

"What's all this noise?" Alistair demanded giving Al a little shake.

"I wanna do a nice send off for Mr. Gray. Tex wants us to make it frontier themed. But I said 'no, I want-"

Tex glowered. "I don't want it to be stuffy. I will fall asleep. If it's gotta be old, let it be rustic and romping."

Alistair set Alfred down gently and crossed his arms. "Old and rustic?"

"Genuine and interesting. And you wouldn't need to wear tails to hear it." Texas gave Alfred a glare and a poke with the toe of his boot.

"I want him to know I can do both; I can fiddle and I can be fancy, too! On my terms. When I want to."

"Nuh-uh, no fancy. If it's old, it's rustic. Promise?"

"Why don't I break out the puzzle jug and we'll play an oh-so rousing game of shove-groat and Pickety Witch as well."

"...don't be ornery. You know the puzzle jug is a pain in the ass to clean up."

Mathieu chewed at his lip.

There was a troubling glint in his brother's blue eyes.

* * *

Following dinner, they gathered in the family room.

Canada leaned forward and made a point to wish them well and applaud their efforts. Because this clearly meant a lot to Alfred…and Tex was good at supporting him.

He ought to have been part of it but didn't know how to join in. Reilley was similarly put out not to have been recruited for the effort.

Puerto Rico commented loudly that Tex just didn't want to be upstaged by him and that's why he wasn't sought out.

To which Tex scoffed, "Rico only knows dirty songs and I didn't wanna subject y'all to that."

"I do NOT. Papi-"

"Tejas wants to play right now, mijo. You can play after for Papi."

"But-"

"After."

"But-"

"After, mi corazoncito."

Alfred used his most polite, hosting voice for Mr. Gray and he played his violin with brilliance.

Mathieu couldn't imagine why he'd never really heard him play before now, considering what an attention-seeker he usually was. And the fact that vintage violins were notorious for being unforgiving. If one didn't hit the note just right…the whole room would cringe.

Alfred cleared his throat and led them in a round of applause for Tex and Momilani's duet of _Buffalo Gals (Won't You Come Out Tonight)_ before giving a charming shrug. "I swear it's just no fair. First Dad and his family, and then them. There's always better singers than me in every line up I wind up in."

Tex swung his guitar onto his back and took up the semi-staged back-and-forth quality of conversation that he and Al naturally fell into.

It reminded Mathieu of vaudeville acts.

"Don't you listen to those whoppers, folks. Yeah, to a classical ear he's more crow than nightingale. But everyone's got a handful of songs they can manage well. Al, too."

"...such a soft way with words, Bro. He just needs breathing time to recover for his next-"

"Yessir, I gotta warm him up though. But just you wait and see. It'll be the third one! If it don't move ya, well there just ain't nothin' in ya!"

Rhys put his phone into filming position.

Arthur hastily aped him, not wanting to be outdone.

Mathieu politely clapped at the end of Al's rendition of _She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain_ which was passable because Alfred's childish voice made it impossible for the Canadian to critique it seriously.

 _On Springfield Mountain_ was far bleaker and Alfred sang it far better. It was an odd thing to hear Alfred slip back into a colonial accent, though. Especially one more rustic and almost (Scottish sounding?) to what Mathieu remembered him having.

But he noticed Arthur nodding along to that one as it went.

It wasn't terribly surprising that it entailed a more somber storyline; older songs were often grimmer.

In the song, a young man was bit by a snake while mowing his father's fields with his scythe.

Arthur murmured lowly with sad eyes, "I remember that one. That was based off a real incident...I didn't know that Alfred knew that one...no one ever quite knew the elegy's auth...or…"

And he saw suspicion alight in the Briton's eye on who the mysterious lyrist was and then sadden.

Oui, that did make it more tragic and could explain Alfred's command of it.

Tex gave a wink and a nod indicating that the next one was Al's musical pièce de résistance.

And they all leaned forward with interest.

Arthur looked determined to be more invested than Rhys who eyed him coolly back and they both set their cells to record.

With a flourish and a grin, Texas set himself to his guitar. Alfred took up his violin—intending to both play and sing.

* * *

Scotland was having a smoke break for his mental health, aware that a physical health lecture from Wales was on its way.

Hazel eyes had promised it—watching him even as he tried to stealthily leave the room without drawing too much attention to himself.

And so he found himself outside, contemplating the moon and the impending trip.

Even the night air was still oppressive with heat and Spring was only just waking, he wouldn't want to visit here in the full blaze of summer.

He blew out a trail of smoke.

He ought to do a tarot reading and maybe get a feel for whatever it was that was making him anxious.

In the background, music was punctuated with bouts of applause.

Mr. Gray was a good sport to put up with that silly production. Alfred would've done him a kinder service to have let him turn in early given the long flight waiting for him the next day.

But the boy seldom thought things through.

He frowned as familiar notes reached his ears and he blanched at hearing snatches of _Fine Flowers in the Valley_ drifting from the open window:

" _...Smile nae sae sweet, my bonnie babe,_

 _Fine flowers in the valley._

 _An' ye smile sae sweet, ye'll smile me dead,_

 _And the green leaves they grow rarely._

 _She's ta'en out her wee penknife,_

 _Fine flowers in the valley-"_

Aw Hell! Nonononono! What was his nephew thinking?! Was he outta his heid?!

He rushed up the porch steps, cigarette all but forgotten, fought with the screen door to let him back in—half determined to bust it down if he had to.

" _...She howket a grave by the light o' the moon…"_

"Open yeh damn door," he growled. Which must've intimidated it, for he got through on the next attempt.

He promptly tripped over a great lineup of shoes by the door.

" _...As she was going to the Church,_

 _Fine flowers in the valley._

 _She saw a sweet babe in the porch,_

 _And the green leaves they grow rarely."_

He hurtled himself through the halls and arrived just in time to be too damn late.

Alfred affected a sugared, honey simpering croon which was meant to be the ballad's mother figure but…

To those who knew Arthur's voice when he was trying to use his magic to manipulate things in his favor…

It was too near in tone and delivery to be by chance.

" _O sweet babe, if thou wert mine,_

 _Fine flowers in the valley._

 _I wad clad thee in a silk so fine,_

 _And the green leaves they grow rarely."_

There was no color in his wee brother's face.

And he physically flinched as the child delivered the final verse with power, with scorn, with pain that made it hurt for an adult to hear.

" _O mother_ _ **dear**_ _, when I was thine,_

 _Fine flowers in the valley!_

 _O ya did na prove to me sae_ _ **kind**_ _!_

 _...And the green leaves they grow rarely."_

Mathieu, poor lad, looked especially uncomfortable.

Rhys was effectively stunned.

"Papi...let go," Puerto Rico requested from an overly tight embrace.

"No, I'm too sad."

So, it was up to Texas, Momilani, and Reilley to give him applause.

"Well done, baby bro! Heartstrings were played!"

"Depressing!" Momilani cheered.

"I know, right?!" Reilley clapped. "I knew ya couldn't a had so many o' mine come through your borders and not rub off a bit. Yer musical tastes take after yer ol' Uncle Reilley. I can give ya a few pointers on which notes to draw out and I'll tell yeh boyo. With the strong way you finish up," he nodded proudly. "Yeh won't leave a dry eye."

Reilley looked ready to wax on about their nephew's performance until Alistair gave him the evil eye.

Alistair ran a hand through his hair as he got closer. "I guess I should take it as a small comfort that you don't know the other variant o' that song."

Alfred looked sharply in his direction and without breaking his gaze, played a few jarring, haunting notes on his violin from _The Cruel Mother_ and sang soft and mournfully, "do-wn by the greenwood si-i-ide, o."

Green eyes grew more stricken.

Reilley was delighted, "O Scottie, he knows it! That one's even better!"

If by "better," his brother meant even more bloody tragic and graphic. Then yes, it was better.

Alistair's mood soured, "Don't you ever sing either of them songs again, laddie. Anywheres I or yer Dad can hear yeh. Or I'll gie ye a skelpit lug! And you-" He looked at Reilley. "I hear you do it, or yeh put _**him**_ up to it. They won't find yeh. The bobbies can ask me all they want. I'll not say a word."

"Oi," Tex groused because the pup never knew when to quit when he was ahead "this is our house and we'll sing what we like _when_ we like. 'Sides that song won me over back in 1823, he sang it so good."

Disbelief and a bit of horror filled Spain's face. " _This_ song?"

"Well, yeah."

Rhys gave Alistair a look then. Alright. Maybe...the lads did have some problems to work through…

"Yeah," Alfred pouted, "What's _your_ deal, Uncle Al?"

"That." Scotland gestured pointedly at his youngest brother who was breathing hard and his eyes were over bright. He had to stave that off. Cuz there weren't many uglier things in the world than Albion crying.

Tex nodded, "That's what's _**s'posed**_ to happen. It's his first-time hearing Al sing it. I did that, too."

Alfred looked over his shoulder curiously, mouth making a slight 'o' as he took in Arthur's deeply shaken reaction. And then his eyebrows furrowed sympathetically, as if suddenly realizing, why that was such an inappropriate song choice for his current company.

"I didn't do that to you," Arthur hissed.

Alfred blinked as if not understanding the horrific implications and replied almost defensively, "It's just a song I know. I've known it forever."

Which didn't help Arthur's agitation in the slightest because it hinted that Al knew that song before he'd known his father.

And it wasn't a song for a babe to know or a bairn to sing.

And the more ragged edges of their history caught on those lyrics.

Much the way his did following his demise on account of his mother's orders.

And he'd recognized parallels unfolding between his brother and nephew. Sadly...bitterly...he'd accepted that it was in the blood, the lot of 'em were part of a cycle.

Màthair had abandoned him to pain and death in a frigid cold, so why was it a surprise that his wee bràthair left his own to burn disgraced and disowned?

And while he was too late to save his nephew from the grisly fate, at least he was rescued sooner than Alistair had been. He was stuck in snow for ages...stuck in Elysian's shadowy bogs because he wanted to come back soon...and couldn't.

And it made a gruesome sort of sense and did serve, to Alistair at least, as a means of bonding through life experience with the lad.

Wales insisted it was more complicated. Their mother had miscalculated and Alistair suffered for it. But it didn't quite ease all that he'd endured as a result. And she'd died so soon after and she wouldn't speak of it before she passed.

When he tried, she'd talk over him about various troubles that occurred while he was "away" and how worried they'd been about him. And she'd hold him too tight and scold him for scaring her by roaming about and not hurrying back.

And in the case of Arthur it...just wasn't so. He'd been an arse but...not a monster.

Aye, father and son had been estranged, but surely by now, Arthur had proved he wasn't capable of deeper cruelty.

Even Alistair was coming to terms with that.

His brother had gone nigh hysterical when the wee one was in the clutches of a bodach.

He was pushy and irritating and controlling and high-handed and...

...fussed whenever so much as a bad dream disturbed the boy's slumber and would coddle him to calmness.

He even got nervous over tying the child's scarves too tight. The way he used to whenever tying the boy's ribbon, or later neckerchief, or even...neckties when the boy's loosened at a meeting.

He'd check with two subtle fingers before tightening the bow or knot.

And if worried, or aware of Alfred's face growing flushed, would check again under a pretext of straightening the neckwear.

No...

No fatal knife or ribbon would ever be set on Alfred by his father's hands. That was becoming clear.

And if the bairn couldn't figure that out...maybe Rhys was right and Alistair would have to say something.

"I didn't give you up," Arthur insisted sharply. "I didn't abandon you! And I certainly didn't-wouldn't-would never- _ **Never**_ -"

Alfred's eyes widened as though catching up at last to where the rest of them were. "I...I-I know that…"

"I didn't know about you! You think I would've dallied if I'd known? Nothing would've stopped me. Could've kept me from you. If I'd so much as suspected you were waiting for me in the New World, I'd have come straight over even if I had to row myself the whole bloody way. I wanted you! You were wanted! She didn't tell me! I didn't know! She knew! She knew how much I wanted you! I _**wanted**_ you-"

"I-"

" _So_ much!" There was a fierceness in that. A hardness in his tone and a glint in his eye that dared his son to try and contradict it.

Alfred, in a rare moment of knowing he'd pushed too far, nodded obediently. "I know. I wasn't singing it _**at**_ you, Daddy."

The hell he wasn't.

"-I've just known it forever...maybe Sarah taught me?" he wondered aloud.

"Well, I'm not sodding Sarah, _**am I**_?!" Arthur exploded.

* * *

Read & Review Please : D


	39. Chapter 39

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or Raleigh's charter. _Johnny of Hazelgreen_ , _The Fause Knight Upon the Road, Robin Hood and the Tinker, Robin Hood and the Potter,_ Beyonce's _Run the World,_ Aqua's _Barbie Girl, or Monopoly._

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically).

 **AN:** Thank you for your reviews and well-wishes! I had a great, fun birthday and here's a little fun to share with you! And fear no longer, unicorn-worrier.

 **Chapter 39: He's Like A Vowel**

* * *

Alistair winced along with Rhys because if there was anyone their brother didn't want to be in a lineup with...it was her. Funny, how even Osha got an edge up because of that ol' minger.

"No, you're not," Alfred replied simply.

Arthur audibly counted out loud and then asked, "That song hurts me. To hear it from you…" He released an unsteady breath. "Do you understand _**why**_ that song hurts me?"

The bairn nodded. "It's a sad song."

Arthur shook his head.

"I was a little flat at the beginning."

Arthur was trying very hard to calm down. "No."

"…it makes you think of Sarah."

A vein in Arthur's jaw twitched and he was obviously trying not to snarl. "It does. It also makes me think YOU think I'm like Sarah."

Alfred blinked and cocked his head to the side. "You're not like Sarah. Sarah would hold my hand to get me to follow her somewhere or drag me out of people's way. You hold my hand just cuz you want to."

"That's…true. We have A LOT of differences."

"Yeah. She lucked out that you weren't there."

Arthur's hands clenched. No doubt, agitated by yet another poke at his supposed "abandonment" of his offspring.

"You…you wouldn't have let her…" The edges of Alfred's mouth smiled and his eyes were distant. "You would've been so angry-"

That didn't begin to cover it. Arthur would've rent her limb from limb. Sometimes Alistair wasn't sure if his nephew realized the whole "Gentleman" bit was a recent phase of Arthur's.

For a very long time, Albion hadn't given a damn about propriety…it was all about power and punishment.

Granted, Arthur was a good deal tamer and more refined by the time he came to settle the New World. Some of the more gruesome punishments for treason were being ruled out when he threw on a morion and declared himself an explorer. Even so, he'd still displayed heads on London Bridge until 1678.

Though…if Alistair recalled correctly…his brother took great care in transporting his son in ways that shielded him from the sights of quartered bodies and rail thin prisoners in cages; either by deliberately taking alternate routes or bringing him over at night in a carriage with shutters.

In light of that, it might have even been a little comical that Arthur was so injured by the lyrics of a song implying he was violent.

He was.

Undoubtedly.

He just…wouldn't hurt Alfred.

"…Did you sing it on purpose?" Arthur's voice broke a little. "To…hurt me?"

Alfred didn't react. He just continued staring with wide, unblinking blue eyes.

Arthur's mouth trembled a little, "If you say, it's just song and I'm looking too deeply-"

"It's a song I'm good at. Tex says so."

"And that's why you sang it?"

"…yeah."

Arthur pursed his lips and nodded.

Alistair let out a disbelieving huff. The little liar.

Bloodshot green eyes gave him a warning glare before they swiveled their attention back to Alfred. "Very well, I-I will take your word then. I'm sorry I…reacted so strongly and misunderstood your intentions."

Alfred shifted uneasily.

He started to move towards his father and then hesitated, crossing one leg behind him to scratch the other.

He took another step and then rocked on his feet.

He was...waiting for an invitation.

The graveness in Arthur's face lessened and he made a welcoming gesture.

Alfred ran over then, taking care to skirt around Alistair who wanted to give him a well-deserved wallop for causing such an upset and then lying about it, and struggled to climb into his father's lap with violin and bow in either hand—only succeeding because Arthur wouldn't let him fall.

"I know you're not like her," he assured all honey and sugar.

Arthur sucked air between his teeth before cupping the boy's face in his hands, "I would never do that to you."

"Never," Alfred agreed softly. "It's just a sad song. Most of the ballads I know are like that. They've got ghosts and murders and stuff. We didn't have radio then, remember? What I knew was what I heard. People sang and did chores."

Arthur nodded tensely.

"Dad...w-who's 'she'? The 'she' you mentioned?"

Arthur swallowed audibly, but did make answer: "Elizabeth…my queen."

"Oh."

Maybe it was the softness in the tone...like the laddie knew he couldn't compete with one of England's most beloved rulers that prompted Arthur's rather desperate cry of, "I would have come for you!"

Alfred nodded but didn't make eye contact, instead mumbling, "...when _did_ they tell you to seek me? Was it when Holland almost caught me?"

"They didn't," Arthur growled. "I was urged to the New World by James, but it was Finland and France that led me to knowing about you."

"I guess…I-I guess that...explains why you adopted me as your brother. I mean, I kinda knew you were my dad, like my Bio dad, from the get-go. But on meeting you, it was clear you had to warm up to the idea. Which was...fine. I mean, I'd already waited that long. I mean, I got you to...eventually, so that was straightened out. But then when I got big you wanted to go back to being called-"

Arthur sighed, "Alfie."

"Well, sorry, but it was weird for me! And it wasn't like I could prove it. And by then, I knew enough about bloodlines to realize I was…" Alfred looked back at Tex, "W-what song, did we have planned next?"

Green eyes sharpened and he prompted Alfred with a hard poke to continue his original train of thought, "You realized you were...?"

"...I was…I just kinda happened on the fly."

"..."

"Which is...fine. I'm in good company. Tex was the surprise behind Door Number One. I was the prize behind Door Number-"

"That is not true! Elizabeth granted a charter to Raleigh to seek out new lands ' _to have, hold, occupy, and enjoy.'_ You were nothing less than planned! I just wasn't informed of having succeeded!"

"…right. Anyways-"

"After...after I made my return to England, following the crusades... and there was so much death then...it felt like everything that was good and innocent would never again…"

Alistair half-wondered if Arthur would mention Outremer, the memory was on his face and Alistair himself felt a stab of regret for the poor doomed little nation who'd been some form of cousin to them…closer to France and Germany, but family nonetheless.

 _ **He'd**_ had the family eyebrows.

Arthur swallowed, "…had to develop new means of carrying on. The clock and new agricultural technologies meant surpluses since we were now a smaller population. This led to more trade opportunities and prosperity. I grew to have enough time and wealth, I aged to adulthood and new ideas of legacy bloomed. What was a daydream turned to a desire, I began to long for a child. I…years passed and later I...I told her how much I...and given that Spain was having success in the New World…"

"He should've let you babysit...that would've cured you," Puerto Rico asserted and got an ear tweaked for it.

"But she didn't tell you about me." Alfred plucked a string on his instrument.

"She probably wanted England with her because she had all those assassination plots, right?" Mathieu mused.

"She had no right to make that decision!" Arthur hissed.

Mathieu looked a little taken aback at the venom.

Alistair sighed.

So then, that wound was still weeping as much as it had been in December.

The Briton pinched the bridge of his nose and then looked over at Mathieu. "I'm sorry, Mathieu."

"Well...at least you didn't get hurt by wendigo," Alfred shrugged.

Arthur looked sharply at him.

But Alfred was tracing the "K" on his violin, "That would've really sucked. All the spells I did to get you to hear me on the breeze. If you'd have come and gotten eaten-"

"I'd have found a way to have rescued you, and solidified our settlement, and eliminated our enemies. I'd have found a way!"

Alfred raised an eyebrow.

But Arthur's eyes were gleaming and Alistair didn't doubt he'd have gladly summoned a demon or contracted with a banshee to carry out his bidding if it had come to that.

Alistair suppressed a shudder. His brother was dangerous that way.

Now that he thought about it, it was obvious that Alfred was similar. All caution was thrown to the wind given the right motivation.

"I would have come for you." Arthur's tone was resolute.

Alfred nodded.

Arthur than gently moved Alfred to sit between himself and Mathieu while motioning for him to hand over the violin and bow.

"It's the one you gave me. I kept good care of it."

Arthur nodded and dropped a short kiss on the blond head.

Arthur gave several practice strokes, which put on full display that he wasn't anywhere as proficient as he'd once been in years where months at sea necessitated the pursuit of such hobbies, let alone near Alfred's level (despite the boy's earlier protests that he was badly out of practice...which was a load of shite).

Still, Arthur managed to sing and play _Johnny of Hazelgreen_.

And Reilley, in a surprising show of fraternity, took the instrument up and accompanied Arthur in his next selections.

Alistair briefly made eye contact with Reilley and Rhys. Aye, Arthur had botched plenty o' things between now and then. But he hadn't earned that damning song. The lot of them could agree on that at least.

And if he had to stay to prevent his nephew from pulling such a stunt again, so be it.

His smoke break would have to wait.

* * *

Rhys moved his chair closer to Arthur and the boys.

The sea was a well-known tempter, so it wasn't terribly surprising Arthur's water powers had seen fit to grant him siren songs of persuasion.

But he hadn't entertained the notion of Alfred inheriting it.

An oversight on his part...America had long perpetuated the idea that he was to be hailed as the golden land of opportunity and the notion certainly had and continued to draw immigrants toward him.

That was more deliberate propaganda than this though.

For he didn't seem entirely aware that he slipped magic into his singing.

There had been some genuine surprise on the child's face as they reacted with horror.

He'd been intent on sharing something, but what it was, precisely, remained a mystery.

There was contempt, disappointed hopes, betrayal…

Was he pushing forward his frustrations?

When he blighted last December, his main focus was making Arthur understand, at least emotionally, the turmoil Alfred had felt in the aftermath of 1812.

He'd been manipulated into that by Grym.

His feelings had been raw and sincere, if misguided.

He wanted to say his nephew's intentions were similarly innocent this time as well but…

Given the way the little one ducked back behind Arthur when he noticed Rhys's gaze on him, suggested otherwise.

With Reilley providing accompaniment, Arthur was able to pull Alfred back onto his lap and snake an arm around Mathieu to draw him nearer.

It was nostalgic to see the three of them so close.

He knew Arthur had enjoyed caring for the two of them in the 1760s, brief as it had ultimately been.

" _They could nearly pass for twins," Arthur whispered while stroking the sleeping children's fair hair._

 _Rhys closed his book of fairy tales and set it on the nearby shelf beside more books brimming with rhymes._

 _Nearly._

 _Mathieu's shade had more sunrise orange in it. And the children's eye colors differed spectacularly: violet and blue._

 _But the shape of their faces made it clear they shared blood._

 _Arthur carefully spread another quilt over the two and lovingly tucked the brothers in._

Arthur's contentment with his current situation was palpable; he kept smiling between verses; his earlier anguish seemingly forgotten.

Alistair posted himself near Tex, who looked more than a bit rebellious as he slammed the fallboard of his piano, grumbling that he hadn't expected him and Al's concert to be commandeered.

"Really, all y'all had ALL the concerts yeh wanted at yer fancy parties through the ages, and ya can't let us have _one_ of our own in our own house?" He turned to Mr. Gray. "I wanted ya to have an American-"

Mr. Gray assured him that he was quite entertained.

That it was a true treat.

It was, since Arthur didn't sing much anymore. Parties and get-togethers just didn't call for such talents unless the ones involved were the artsy elite...or Japan wanted to do karaoke.

With the right amount of alcohol and plenty of 80s music to choose from, Japan and England could sing into the wee hours of the morning.

Rhys never enjoyed carrying them back to their hotel; they were heavier than they appeared.

Reilley's fiddling brought him back to the moment. He wasn't a match for Alfred but he had an ease borne of years spent in halls and taverns.

It was fascinating seeing his brothers work together rather than compete.

Reilley was easily the superior bard, his skill for composing pieces, his careful collecting of stories, and his dynamic voice for storytelling made it easy for viewers to lose track of time in his company. He felt like a friend and he was able to support Arthur and step in when his explanation on the introduction of a piece sagged or turned wooden.

Arthur's silver tongue paired with his golden vocal chords made him enchanting as a piece was played. People would sigh with contentment as he hit notes with grace and ease. He was a performer, he gave life, he resuscitated old words.

It was usually a point of contention between the two. Reilley begrudged Arthur for his raw talent and Arthur envied Reilley's easy rapport with an audience (Arthur could shock and awe but he had trouble endearing himself. It was best for him to perform and then leave.).

What Rhys hadn't accounted for was how the two were more similar than different. Each depended on making their listeners feel compelled to stay and hear more.

They gave pleasure.

It made Alfred stand out all the more.

Alfred lacked Reilley's charming enthusiasm.

He was bereft of Arthur's crystal clear sound.

And yet, Rhys couldn't deny his nephew's performance left him with goosebumps.

He wasn't a singer.

He wasn't friendly.

He wasn't enchanting.

He was...bewitching.

Yes, Alfred was bewitching.

He would be heard and not forgotten.

He was the chord that sent a shiver down your spine.

Tex groaned in exasperation and then whined, "You guys get to hear this stuff" gesturing to England and his brothers "All the time."

Rhys was tempted to tell him that Al's song was really one of Alba's but…

His nephew had sung it to great effect...though, it'd be a greater boon to never hear it again.

He set his phone to record.

The _Fause Knight Upon the Road_ was a rollicking beat and Arthur bounced the little one on his knee to it.

Now, that the entertainer was the entertained Alfred was startled out of whatever strange mood he'd been in.

Every bounce and clever quip made the edges of his mouth perk into an unready smile.

He'd really never heard any of these.

 _Sir Orfeo_ followed and afterwards Alistair reluctantly acknowledged that he might need to accompany a future performance of this one with his bagpipes.

When Arthur dryly asked what venue he was imagining for such a show, Alistair gruffly mentioned a few hours at a Scottish festival was well within his rights to demand.

As Arthur owed him.

Rhys's lips curved, "I'll come with you, Alba."

"Didnae ask you."

Reilley caught Rhys's eye and glinted with mischief, "O Alis, don't be shy now. We can all come and paint ourselves blue like the ol' days and watch you lose at caber tossing-"

"I don't lose! Tha's mah best event. Yeh'd know if yeh ever bothered to co-" he broke off, face turning as red as his hair.

"Oi! Sounds like an invitation to me, boys," Reilley grinned.

"I'm noting it on my phone," Rhys stated.

The banter piqued Alfred's interest in attending one and he announced that his nation held various heritage festivals; Celtic, Scottish, Irish, and he wasn't sure about Welsh.

"I dunno if we're allowed to do British."

Which was an odd way to phrase it but he then burst out, "But we could have a tea party. If you wanted us too. And-er-it wouldn't be…like…Boston."

"Good to know."

Alfred's mouth opened and shut like he wanted to say more. And he twisted his hands into Arthur's shirt but nothing more came.

More kindly, Arthur repeated himself and nuzzled their noses. "Good to know."

Midway through _Robin Hood and the Tinker_ , Texas grumbled again about being shuffled out of the lineup.

Alfred put a finger to his lips. "Shhh!"

"O, I _**know**_ , you didn't just shush me."

"Tex," he entreated in a loud whisper. "Stop."

"I _**KNOW**_ you didn't just shush me-"

"Please," Alfred waved his hands desperately. "I never heard these before. Who knows when I'll get to aga-"

Arthur stopped mid-note looking for all the world like he'd been struck and the wind was knocked from him.

Alfred looked devastated and grimaced when Reilley's playing went to a jarring stop.

Arthur took in a steadying breath, turned to Reilley, and they both made a gesture to signal they'd repeat the measure.

Rhys had a feeling they would repeat it as many times as needed for Alfred to feel reassured.

That no...no, Arthur wasn't going anywhere.

None of them were.

Tex resigned himself to his fate only when Alistair sat down on the piano bench beside him effectively ending his commentary since the Scotsman looked ready to call him out for a rematch if he pressed his luck.

Arthur was hitting his stride by the time he settled into _Robin Hood and the_ _Potter_.

The only problem was…if they let their brother settle into Robin Hood ballads (and he did look far too comfortable to be reciting one at his leisure before an adoring child), they'd be here all night.

Rhys cleared his throat as it finished, "The hour grows late and-"

"Some o' us gotta drive tomorrow," Alistair barked.

"A wonderful evening, thank you all," Mr. Gray smiled. "And a special thanks to my hosts." He nodded at Tex, who tipped his hat, and then rested a gentle hand on Alfred's head.

Arthur let him.

"Thank you, young master."

"You're a good Starburst, Mr. Gray," Alfred told him solemnly. "I've dealt with a lot of yellows and oranges. You were…really great to happen upon."

"High praise?" Reilley questioned.

"Al's tired. I'll put it like this," Tex walked over. "You're one of the only humans who ever showed up on our doorstep totally unexpected that Al was…actually happy to see. So, that makes four. I've known him since the early 1800s. Four. You're the fourth. Congratulations."

Rhys pursed his lips. So, Alfred had a long and troubled history interacting with humans. They'd been operating under the impression that they were dealing with a couple of sporadic episodes of outright cruel figures and a few centuries of bad governmental policies but...if most of his relations with people weren't particularly good…

It certainly explained his leeriness at accepting therapy. He just...genuinely didn't trust them as a whole.

He saw them as a responsibility and a group he needed to save in times of trouble.

But...when he didn't have to involve himself in their affairs...he didn't.

Alfred rubbed his eyes and focused back on Arthur. "I never knew any of these…they aren't sad."

"Oho? What's this? Father might just still know a few things?" Arthur raised a large eyebrow.

Alfred laughed.

Arthur carefully set him down on his feet so he could stand and stretch. Rhys had been privately impressed he'd managed to last thus.

Having Alfred's weight fully on him and Mathieu's weight pressing into his side, had to have made it difficult to get the breath he needed to sing.

And yet…

"Come now, boys, we've a full day ahead of us," he gestured for Mathieu to follow and began to take up Alfred's hand but Alfred wriggled it away.

He reached up and scrunched his fingers in a supplication to be carried.

It was too much for Alistair.

"After everythin' yeh pulled this night, and now yer expecting spoiling?! The gall!"

Rhys frowned. "Alistair-"

"Ack, don't Rhys. Arthur, no, Arthur don't-"

Arthur gave him such a flat look right then and if only to spite him, stooped to hoist the child back into his arms and held him rather possessively.

Still, with the child's arms wrapped tight about his neck and having the refrain of _Sir Orfeo_ hummed inexpertly in his ear, their brother did look content.

* * *

Texas tried to appear confident as morning sunshine filtered into the room and made his choice of clothing even more conspicuous than it had been an hour earlier when everyone had been too tired and lethargic to care as they rushed around packing the cars.

Spain looked him up and down, "Mijo, do you know something I don't?"

Tex blinked.

Antonio crossed his arms, "Are we heading into battle?"

"Noooo. Why do you ask?" Tex tried to channel Feliciano's innocence.

It didn't work. Not even a little bit.

"Because you are in combat clothes."

"..."

"Did you dress in the dark?"

"Al, tell him he's crazy."

"Spain, he's crazy."

"Al!"

Alfred flashed a grin, "No worries, Spain. He sometimes gets on a Rambo kick."

Okay, so he maybe he went a little overboard by dressing in fatigues and combat boots. He just wanted this mission to go right!

Spain conceded, "I suppose it is better than what you wore last time we went-"

"I wasn't prepared that time! It doesn't count."

Spain gave a thumbs up for Tex's footwear choice. "Much better. Is it a military campground?"

"No...and we usually qualify for a hell of a discount. I mean, yeah, there's me, Hawaii, Rico, and I think...sometimes Canada counts...he's like a vowel…but that might be hotels...I dunno. But Al, doesn't look his rank right now and we've got a ton of guests."

"Don't tell me all that, it burns," Al complained.

"Sorry."

Antonio scratched his head. "Soooo you are dressed because?"

"I just...feel like wearing...this stuff."

Puerto Rico guffawed as he entered the room and stood beside him, elbowing him. "Oye, what is this? Battlestation time? Zombie attack so soon?"

"I just wanted-"

"I heard you." His older brother leaned in and lowered his voice. "And I say it is bullshit."

Tex froze.

"..."

Rico's eyes narrowed and lost their humor. "Bullshit. And it stinks, mi hermanito. What are you up to?"

Dammit! He had to do somethin' fast or risk the whole operation being uncovered. Unfortunately, that only left a real a low-down move up his sleeve.

But it was Rico, he deserved it.

"Papi!" he whined. "Papi, he's breathing my air and it's making me uncomfortable. His breath kills!"

"Rico! Don't breathe his air."

"P-papi?!"

"Don't make me come over there, mijo. Go, brush your teeth."

"Pa-"

"Teeth! Brush them."

* * *

Alfred wished he could have a window seat, but Arthur was adamant about the kiddie seat staying in the middle of the vehicle.

" _Heaven forbid that something should happen, I...I need you to be safe, Sweet."_

There was always something in the sound of Arthur's desperation that cowed him and he let Arthur buckle him in and check and test the restraints to his satisfaction.

He kinda wished Mr. Gray was coming. He was so calm and zen-like. Considering Alfred had already witnessed eight arguments that morning about how to best pack the vans...their trip would have benefitted from a sage-like presence.

 _Mr. Gray wished them all a safe trip as Stuart pulled into the driveway in a sleek black Ford Mustang._

 _And even though Alfred had promised himself he wouldn't get all emotional and he'd send Gray off with a smile and a saucy salute…he ended up clinging to his legs and giving incomprehensible gibberish as a goodbye._

 _Arthur picked him up and settled him on his hip. "Thank you for your help, Sherwin. You're indispensable."_

 _The man smiled and gave Alfred a soft hug and patted his back. "Now, now, young master. You'll see me soon, I trust? We've another Winter Holiday to plan."_

" _That's right, poppet," Arthur joined in. "And now that you're on the mend, there's far more to do if you like. Caroling-"_

" _There's are quite a few carriage rides-"_

" _Ballet and concerts and-"_

" _Oh and there's Santa. I know quite a few spots that do a bangup job-"_

 _Arthur nodded enthusiastically, "Doesn't that sound fun, love?"_

Alfred had spluttered and nodded because he knew damn well how ridiculous he was being and he didn't want to be causing a scene.

It was only with Stuart's entrance into the house that he was able to collect himself.

 _Maybe it was because Stuart's shoes were well-polished and his suit was pressed, that a sense of business and responsibility oozed off him._

 _That put Alfred's butt back in gear and he was able to get ahold of himself._

 _His aide gave him a rundown of three new projects being implemented, a manilla folder labeled TOP SECRET (because Alfred liked all his stuff to say that...it made him feel important...and cool...like James Bond), and an update on his other pets._

 _Agent Louis had a special affinity for dealing with the more exotic creatures in Alfred's care. Melville the whale was still his sweet self, but apparently his unicorn, Miss GlimmerGlam, kept peeling wallpaper off the walls of the dude's cottage._

 _Alfred suggested using a spray bottle as a deterrent and popcorn as a reward for good behavior._

 _Arthur begged to differ and demanded said agent's number so he could list the "proper" nutrients for a young unicorn and methods of training her "correctly."_

 _Alfred frowned. "Is she my unicorn or not?"_

" _...when I gifted her, I thought you were old enough for such a respons-"_

" _Oh, so you wouldn't have given her to me if you'd known-"_

" _I would have scheduled time to make sure you understood how best to care for her rather than assume you would read the packet I gave you."_

 _Alfred felt his face warm up because...he knew where the packet was...he just...hadn't read beyond Page 3 because…it was 40 pages. And he just...could not read Page 4. Something in him would just say, Nay._

 _Arthur shook his head._

" _It was too long of instructions," he squeaked. It was bad when the alternative of reading stenographer notes about congressional cases was more fun._

" _You've written me contracts that made Encyclopedia Britannica look as slim as a drink coaster."_

" _..."_

" _I'll let Agent Louis know my methods. And on our return, I'll show you them. I think a more hands-on approach would be more interesting, yes?"_

" _Y-yeah."_

And even though Arthur had swiftly settled into a bossy mood, he couldn't really challenge it because he...kinda owed him even before that.

It was hard starting off the day owing somebody. The old man had kinda come to his rescue earlier when Tex wasn't going to indulge him.

He'd had music on the brain when he woke up so he started stockpiling CDs for the trip over as well as the camp site.

" _You ain't packing all this crap," Tex declared, even going so far as to mime drawing a line in the sand._

 _Worse, Hawaii was on his side. "Baby, this is how we ended up with ice cream machines on our ships in WWII. Isn't it?"_

" _But-but-but-"_

" _No way, General, we're callin' you out. And what's this?" Tex pointed to a heap of stuffed animals and plastic action figures._

" _..."_

" _Honey, we've got playlists on our phones and do you really need all these toys?"_

 _When Arthur first intervened, Tex snarled, "You ain't the one bunking with all his crap."_

 _Which was true...Tex usually did suffer when Al packed to his heart's content._

 _Arthur delivered back. "You won't be. Alfred and I often share spaces during campaigns."_

 _Which was...also true...when he was abroad._

 _Arthur leveled a hard look at Texas and then turned to Alfred. "Pack what you need most, Sweet. I want you to be comfortable. We can make room."_

So, Hop and Woolly made the cut and Alfred agreed to limit his CD hoard to five...because yeah...everybody did have playlists.

Still, it sounded like Texas suffered near immediate cosmic retribution, because he'd texted: _Rico & Papi r n charge of the radio. We sound like a taco truck._

Alfred typed back: _Yum_. _Karma._

He was dealing with enough subtle groans from his fellow passengers to spend too much sympathy on his bro.

Honestly, it shouldn't have been terribly surprising that Hawaii enjoyed driving to Beyonce's _Run The World_ and pretty much anything that was fast-paced, loud, and empowering for women.

And if Al sang along, it was because he was very secure in his masculinity, thank you. There was a reason Susan B. Anthony was featured on his specialty coins.

Besides...tch, Tex knew the lyrics, too. He memorized any song that mentioned him.

Yeah, maybe knowing all the lyrics to _Barbie Girl_ might've raised some eyebrows, but he had nothing but love for her. He didn't get the haters. She was a self-made entrepreneur and he told them so.

She worked her way from being a model to a fashion magazine editor all the way to the Olympics and the moon! But even with her degrees for being a doctor in all kinds of medical fields (and a veterinarian and lawyer!), she wasn't too snobby to work at McDonald's when the economy crashed and stuff.

Because she had sisters to support.

And her absentee deadbeat parents and Ken just couldn't be depended on.

The way Alfred saw it, after dealing with the curve balls life kept throwing at her, if she wanted a handbag and matching shoes, hell yes, she should have it.

Work demands reward.

Cuz capitalism! Entrepreneurship! Economy! It-it-it makes everything better. Dammit, Alexander Hamilton was better at explaining it.

Hawaii interjected a "Hallelujah!" as he finished. "That's why my baby wins _Monopoly_.Got dollars and cents on the brain. Always."

"I like your view of her," Mathieu smiled. "Your interpretation is-"

"Martyr Barbie," Arthur snarked.

Rhys choked and couldn't hold back his sniggers.

Alfred huffed but Arthur reached over to tickle him under his chin and he squealed with laughter.

Okay, so philosophical leanings and music tastes aside, it wasn't too bad in here.

Technically, they all could've fit in either Ford Transit…except they packed a lot of crap.

Alistair was driving Van One with Antonio riding shotgun to monitor the speedometer so Uncle Al didn't, as Antonio cheerfully put it, "kill them all in a fiery, high-speed crash."

Tex had been very upset to be separated and stuck between Puerto Rico and Northern Ireland. He used their walkie-talkies more than was strictly necessary to check in.

The fact that there were always voices bickering in the background whenever Tex called over made their ride in Van Two seem boring.

Without any epic argument, it was agreed that Hawaii was driving the first leg of the journey, then it would go to Rhys, then Mathieu, then Arthur.

He wished he could drive. It was easier not to think when you had to drive or fly; you had to stay in the moment.

Alfred moved restlessly.

The more peaceful the ride became, the more the other night was starting to weigh on him. It was like when wind changed direction and blew smoke from a fire in the distance. And the smell and feel grew impossible to ignore.

It was stupid because Arthur had let it go and wasn't acting weird or anything. He was looking forward to their trip.

It kinda made it worse.

" _If you say, it's just song and I'm looking too deeply...I-I will take your word then._

 _I'm sorry I…reacted so strongly and misunderstood your intentions."_

His honor was being tarnished.

It made the hero squirm.

And the worst part was...not even he knew exactly what his intentions had been.

It was just a song, right?

Even if it spoke to him in ways that other songs didn't which made him able to sing it with feeling.

Because even if Arthur hadn't meant to leave him…

Arthur…

Osha...

Sarah…

It didn't change that…

He twitched hard—feeling suddenly trapped.

Arthur looked up from where he'd started playing some puzzle game on his phone. He paused it and reached over to where Alfred's hand was scrabbling frantically over the seam of his booster seat.

Alfred's hand was held very gently and he was asked in a soft voice if they needed to pull the car to the side of the road while his panic attack eased.

No, he mused, Sarah had never held his hand that way. Osha never spoke like that even at her tenderest.

Arthur never let him sleep anywhere cold or hard...even in the trenches...he'd made sure it was his back that blocked the wind…

Though America had dismissed it more as a matter of pride rather than...

Maybe that was why…

" _Throw yehself on his mercy!"_

 _Watching his father laugh and feast while_ _ **his**_ _world burned…_

The realization in that instant...that without him.

Without Father…

A life without Father meant...

That there were no soft places left.

There were no safe places left.

There were no safe people left.

He had to burn the softness out of himself.

And forget Spring.

* * *

Read & Review Please : D


	40. Chapter 40

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or Room Two. Or Fine Flowers in the Valley.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Some Hawaiian vocab and cultural ideas. Rome's Saturnalia. Carolus Linnaeus, Swedish botanist who's pretty much the father of taxonomy. Castles. Flora. Angst and fluff.

 **AN:** Thank you for your reviews! I know it's been a while. I had to travel down for my little nephew's b-day. Just got back a little bit ago and got caught back up (and caught a summer cold D :). Oh well. Hope you enjoy this tribute to the end of summer (someone tell my climate that it's over, we're still gonna be hitting up in the 90s all week)!

 **Chapter 40:** **Hoʻoponopono**

* * *

 _Alfred stared at the cracked mirrors and his distorted reflections. "Look what you've made me."_

" _It…it's…" Colonel Harris chuckled between wheezes, "S' an honor…to be one of your Founding Fathers."_

 _Horror swamped him._

"...back to…"

A heartbeat that wasn't his own sounded against his ear.

"Come…"

The homey smell of linen and sea salt and wool and cologne moved in and he fell into different memories.

 _He ran through tall meadow grasses, green and dewy underfoot, heart bursting with gladness…_

 _He pushed through flowering patches with a squeal as his name was called again._

"Alfred…"

 _He picked his pace up each time he heard it, until his chest burned as breath couldn't come quick enough._

 _Because having a name was beautiful. And this one was chosen special. Just for him._

"…Alfred…"

 _Flowers could have lots of names, but there was a Swedish man, whom Father had mentioned, that created special names for organisms. A name that would be THE name of whatever something was to whomever was beholding it, wherever in the world they happened to be._

 _Having a human name was kind of like that._

 _Because he'd never had one before._

 _Or at least not one that humans used._

 _Osha could never get her tribespeople to call him Dyami…and so it never seemed quite right…even when other tribe nations deigned to call him by it. Because they were doing it out of deference to her…and not him._

"...me…"

 _He rushed into a pair of open arms that swung him high in the air before pulling him in close._

A breeze ruffled his hair and made branches whisper.

"Come back to me."

Always.

Dappled light filtered down through leaves and the brightness made him squint. "Father?"

"There you are," Arthur smiled, though the action didn't reach his eyes and lines of worry remained.

Alfred looked away in guilt and- what in the?!

They'd pulled to the side of the road! Hell, they weren't even in the car! The other passengers were leaning against the van, throwing him concerned glances.

"W-why..?"

"You needed a tree," Arthur shrugged and helped him to sit upright.

A tree?

Yeah, he'd always park himself by a tree following a miserable ship voyage. However, the more paved the port cities became, the farther he had to go to find one until, he finally learned how to just suck it up and trudge on.

Arthur handed him a Mountain Pink that was growing wild and blooming early.

"I had a bad memory," Alfred offered in exchange, wishing he had something better to give.

Arthur nodded.

"I don't remember all the details, but…I had to toughen up. I-I remember that. I…I was soft back then…All that weakness in me," his lip curled, "…had to be…" banished.

"I thought like that for a long time," Arthur remarked candidly "It seems to make sense, building walls. I know plenty on the subject. Halls. Castles. The outer wall is meant to surround the castle's town…to protect them from attack. They were to be stationed with warriors to keep lookout and to be sturdy enough to provide time…time for the villagers to arm themselves or seek shelter in the castle. Castles weren't simply shows of wealth. Not in the beginning…they were strongholds in times of trouble. What could you be a lord of if your people weren't kept safe?"

Alfred found himself nodding along to the history lesson on architecture as he stared at a pumpjack in the distance. He'd used to love these stories as a child and Arthur enjoyed giving them.

So it was surprising to see his father wasn't smiling as he delivered this one.

"It makes sense. You care and so you build. And build and build. Taller. Stronger. Deeper. Until one day, you realize that in all your building...that _them_ , whom you built those walls to guard and keep from all harm, have been left outside. And there's a terrible distance now between you and them because there are all these bloody walls standing in the way."

Oh…

"Softness is no crime…it takes great strength to be tender."

Blue eyes narrowed on him suspiciously. How much had leaked through?

"Are you well enough that you want to continue?"

Alfred gave a brusque nod.

"There's no need to push on. We can linger," Arthur offered him another flower.

As he accepted it, he couldn't decide if it made the first flower he was holding look more common or less lonely.

* * *

Arthur had a stiff lower back by the time it was his turn to drive.

But that wasn't his reason for sighing.

He was reaching the end of his rope on what he could do to help his child. Every time they seemed on the verge of a breakthrough, the boy clammed up. With castle metaphors still in mind, Arthur thought of a drawbridge rescinding.

They were the only two left awake on this leg of the venture. The sun had set ages ago and the highway was dark. Van One was far ahead of them now, but Arthur could guess from the way it listed that Reilley was at the wheel. He had such trouble staying on the "correct" side here.

Even for Arthur the placement of the wheel and shifter was less than ideal, but he'd made it a point to become skilled in this.

He couldn't offer his services in taking the American to meetings on this side of the pond if he wasn't proficient. In recent years, those short trips were sometimes the only one-on-one time they shared.

Time they usually wasted boasting on their latest accomplishments or picking apart one another's movies. Alfred's had a ridiculous amount of CGI and plotlines with twists that went for shock value rather than brilliance. Arthur's were slow and over invested in the past.

The dark quiet of their van, which had lulled the other occupants to sleep, made them more alert.

It worked for Arthur, naturally, as he was the driver. It was the whole reason he'd volunteered to be last.

There'd always been something soothing in years gone by, to man the helm of his ship at night.

And the cover of night was probably the reason his boy now had less inhibitions. He'd spent the earlier part of the day and each meal time assuring everyone, following his episode, that he was quite alright.

Even though he wasn't.

But he took care to act boisterous and charming.

He tucked in when presented with food, trying to hide grimaces as flavors that usually invigorated, fell short.

The toys that came with his meals were treated as treasures then. Now, they sat discarded in the vehicle's cup holders.

Even though Arthur told him repeatedly that it was alright to feel off after an incident like that, that Alfred didn't need to perform for anyone...

The plastic smile stayed on for hours.

And if weren't for their connection, he could almost delude himself into believing that _he_ was the one overreacting as he'd made the mistake of doing various times ago.

If not for now.

Because now the boy he was glimpsing in his rearview mirror was currently cuddling Hop and twisting one poor shabby ear...and he thought Arthur couldn't see his downturned mouth trembling.

"Sweet," he called softly, keeping his eyes on the road but reaching one hand back to pat the child's sneakered foot consolingly. "Sweet, I'm here. Why don't you talk to me about what's distressing you?"

" _He had to burn the softness out of himself."_

He wasn't sure if Alfred knew he'd shared that dark thought hours ago.

There was a shadow and a flicker of embers with the idea that made Arthur shiver with memories of the Dark Ages—of being tied fast and wriggling desperately as the wood was stacked high and the crime of sorcery was read out.

He glanced at the boy, but his son remained quiet.

He was resigning himself to the fact that Alfred wasn't going to share more with him and he moved his arm back to rest more comfortably on the console when the child said: "He called himself a Founding Father of mine."

"Harris?" he guessed.

"Yeah…He...he was dying, I think, when he said it."

"I don't know why people think that gives them leave to be dramatic," Arthur delivered flatly.

Alfred's jaw dropped and then he laughed abruptly—soft, shocked, and a bit alarmed.

Arthur checked the gauges to make sure the needles didn't spike; he tended to speed when he was angry. "He was trying to rattle you, darlingheart, I'm sure of it."

"R-really?"

God, he sounded so young.

He _**was**_ young.

They'd exploited that.

It hurt to know that Alfred dreaded that long dead man far more than he'd ever feared Grym.

He tried not to grip the steering wheel too hard.

"Absolutely," Arthur delivered with all the robustness he possessed. "I know these things. When you've been around as long as I have, sweet, you learn about people and how to define them. Once they have a label, you'll find it infinitely easier in dismissing the upsetting, outlandish things they have to say."

"And...and he's...?"

"A wanker, dear."

"A...wanker?"

He readjusted his grip on the steering wheel. "You need to put a little more disdain in the word, love."

"Wanker," Alfred hissed through gritted teeth.

Arthur chuckled. "That's the ticket."

"He was a wanker...Colonel Wanker."

Arthur laughed.

His son joined in and while it sounded genuine, it was rushed and slightly nervous as though he was doing something forbidden.

"The power of Saturnalia," Arthur began.

"H-huh?"

"It was a Roman festival in winter. Their version of Yule or so. It was brought to our isle and I...I knew it from...from my time in Rome."

Alfred was hanging onto every word.

"It was a grand event."

He'd leave out the human sacrifice involved.

"Lots of role reversal, gambling, gift-giving, revelry..." he trailed off, remembering it as one of the few times of year he could shirk his duties to the Italy brothers while he was under their grandfather's thumb.

"...kay, I...I'm listening."

"And laughing. Outrageous plays. Irreverent. Bold. Laughing in the face of death and social class and everything that bound civilization. It was the one time of year where you could laugh and mock the highest authority figures. Laughter helps us master-"

"-fear."

"Yes."

He'd had a strong feeling Alfred knew that already, he employed the tactic enough.

More than he'd like to admit, the child had taken him down a notch with a well-timed snort of derision.

"Is it obvious that I'm scared of him?"

Yes.

Arthur answered, "He was a dangerous man. I have no doubt of that. I just don't want you lending him more power over you. More power than he had. He _**never**_ had you. He just made you think so."

"Colonel Creeper."

Arthur smiled.

Alfred looked up from Hop and slid down his seat as he tried to stretch a foot across the center console. Arthur moved his elbow back so the toe of the sneaker could reach him. He was taking a corner so he couldn't afford to reach back right now.

It was enough; Alfred sighed in relief.

Arthur would tell him to sit nicely...safely...after.

"He…he had awful side hair," Alfred confessed. "You know? Back then? Along the jaw? And he was OCD about his desk. He never ate at it. Ever. I…I don't trust people you don't see eat. Maybe it's messy. Yes, it's probably an indignity, I mean, there's a reason lots of reality television skips over it. But I trust the tasters over the glam people, you know? I think it's a big deal. I think that's why you eat with people, you share with them and them with you and that's how you show them you trust them."

"I can understand that." Truly, that wasn't a quirk. Eating with others was a bonding ritual that hailed from times beyond Albion and his brothers.

Gaining confidence, the child continued, "He didn't like birds. Especially, the way they'd gather wherever I lived…"

"Ornithophobia."

"Yeah!" The boy stumbled over the word a bit as he repeated it.

Good.

Harris was descending and becoming a man again.

It was a difficult balancing act, giving Alfred ways to strengthen himself that didn't undercut or mock the reality of having vulnerabilities.

Because vulnerability in and of itself wasn't an evil.

If there was anything Arthur was learning about it, it was how key it was in developing meaningful bonds.

It levelled the playing field, which was important since Alfred hated to be at a disadvantage. It made Arthur's efforts sincere. It opened him and encouraged his child to do the same.

The boy was beginning to acknowledge out loud that he did have weaknesses, but they were still resisted.

It might have explained why, even with the hex removed, Alfred hadn't leapt into his arms exhilarated by remembering good times they'd shared.

Some memories were being outright rejected.

Because Spring was perceived as a weakness.

England knew the cosmos had set him up for another painful lesson.

First, he'd had one on power. He'd realized his life's ambition to become something great and turbulent and feared only to find that all those qualities made it difficult for him to nurture the little ones in his care.

Now, he was being schooled on weakness. He'd spent the majority of his life despising frailty in himself.

He'd spent grueling sparring sessions after being too slow in parrying during a critical battle.

He'd lost track of all the hours filling out paperwork demanding the implementation of new military gear following preventable losses of life.

There was plenty to loathe in himself; his impatience, his temper, his lean frame and young face that undermined the real strength in him and didn't begin to compare to the strength of his will. It agitated him...how strangers could take one look at him and scoff—thinking him a pushover.

So he learnt the right way to hold himself, to school his features, to demonstrate his biting wit, to display how dangerous he could be.

It had made sense...to be ruthless with himself.

It helped him towards his goals...

It was necessary!

It was…a special brand of torture to watch his child do the same, following his example…quartering off pieces of himself.

They had very different value systems. It chilled him to see qualities he adored in his son be brutally cast aside.

Alfred had a big heart.

Yes, it got him into trouble. It compromised him. Confused him to such a point he felt betrayed.

And he betrayed his young heart in turn by misinforming it—insisting its life mission wasn't pondering, struggling, and learning WHO to love and trust in…but rather…evaluating WHAT to love and trust in.

And he chose principles, and resources, and things.

Arthur watched the child snuggle against Hop.

It was...safer to love something rather than someone.

Hop could never deliver a harsh word or glance.

Hop could never make an arse of himself, or fall short, or be treacherous and petty.

Hop could never disappoint him.

Hop could never love him either.

Arthur sighed.

Thankfully, Dr. Hargreaves had been very supportive when Arthur discussed his son's tendency to be overly critical of his shortcomings and his fear that it was a learned behavior from himself.

" _I think it's easier to spot harmful ways of thinking in others. It's only after you see them do it and feel shock...that we open ourselves to the realization that we're not so different. Perfectionism is...dangerous. It causes anxiety and low self-esteem. It's...interesting that things which would be easily forgiven for others is unforgivable to the self. We have more patience, more kindness for strangers. When you start cycling into self-censorship, ask why. Why am I being so judgmental? If there was someone else in my shoes, would I treat them this way?"_

The main takeaway being: Give yourself permission to BE yourself.

Alfred watched him closely and aped him often.

If he was going to encourage a change in that behavior, he had to embrace all those pieces of himself that he hated; so his son could know he was allowed to be whole (imperfect as he might be).

He turned the radio on and set it to classical.

All the times he'd modeled the right way to hold a fork or introduce himself or dance a set…

All the times he'd enjoyed being looked up to.

 _And it was in this bad habit your son followed your lead, Arthur, old boy._

Yes.

Arthur focused on the road with determination.

Yes, and he'd follow his lead out of it, too.

But first-

He gave the little sneaker one more fond pat and gently pushed it back.

"Alfred, sit nicely now."

There was a groan, but Alfred did as asked.

"Thank you, sweet."

* * *

Alfred jumped as the walkie came to life and it was agreed that they'd need to find a motel.

Spain ended up paying for one room for him and his. He watched with amusement as Texas was bodily dragged by his father and brother into the space.

"Al!" He gripped the door frame as he was tugged in.

The blond waved him farewell.

"Al?! Allie! Why won't you help me? This is for the Civil War, ain't it?! Ain't it? Al-"

"No," he laughed. "It's because you won't do the Mexican Hat dance anymore."

"NEVER! NEVER AGAIN!"

Alfred's cheeks puffed in displeasure.

Here, Alfred was happy to sing all the songs and dances that Tex liked best from the old days and he wouldn't reciprocate. Tex could be stingy like that.

Alistair splurged and got a room for himself.

That left six of them to one.

It was a bit of a cramped space; Alfred could stand between the two beds and touch each.

Momilani claimed one bed but said Alfred was welcome and it seemed like he'd need to take her up on the offer since Mathieu and Arthur were going to share the other.

Rhys and Reilley were going to use the room's fold out couch and Rhys suggested they wish him luck that he didn't wake up with a black eye because Reilley tossed and turned.

Alfred kicked his shoes off and sat on Momilani's bed and watched.

It was the easy way Mathieu and their European relatives maneuvered in the small living quarters that drove home how many years in the field they'd spent together.

Canada was welcome in their tent when they shared.

It made sense.

He'd seen his brother come out of their tent plenty of times during the World Wars following a briefing.

He'd tried not to let it bother him that the space where he was usually informed of new developments was always on his own side.

Arthur had shared tents with him.

Reilley and Alistair had too.

He just...hadn't been welcome when it was all of them.

They were always kind of a united front against him.

Canada went to take a shower.

Momilani and Rhys went to a neighboring 24-hour liquor store to see about picking up some quick, semi-healthy snacks for the next day; or Rhys went for that...Momilani was Alfred's agent in ensuring tasty things made it to the cashier.

Reilley was asking the front desk for more towels, because the room did not have enough for their party.

Alfred took in a deep breath.

The coast was clear. It was essentially just him and Arthur in the room.

He owed him.

Arthur had been super patient with him and all the old man wanted in return was for him to be forthcoming. Right?

Arthur had already changed into his pajamas and was sitting on his bed playing Room 2 on his phone while it was plugged into the wall.

Alfred stared at the moonlight peeking through the blinds and haltingly admitted that when he sang _Fine Flowers in the Valley,_ he'd think about flowers as well as the…plotline of the song.

He'd start off with valley flowers like butterfly weed and then would move to the depressing shale barren and then over to the cliff side where small, sad vegetation like Mountain Meadow Rue, and Small Enchanter's Nightshade clung and survived despite and because of sea spray and waves.

He'd half-hoped that Arthur would be as absorbed in his game as Tex got while playing farm games on his cell.

To no avail…

Arthur's fingers stopped moving and he set his phone aside.

There was always something a little dangerous in having England's full attention.

Alfred fidgeted. "I…I didn't expect you to get so worked up…I mean, yeah, I guess I can understand, but-"

"Alfred," Arthur's brows grew formidable and his eyes were stormy. "The 'ocean,'" he gave air quotations, "isn't malicious. It's wild, untamable…true enough. But it isn't cruel! Waterways are life giving, lucrative, useful-"

Alfred sent an image of blackgrass, which was met with confusion.

Yeah, it wasn't the most beautiful plant, but…

"It only grows happily in brackish water," he explained.

"...?"

Alfred stared at his socks and belatedly realized they totally didn't match. "...Estuaries, where freshwater and seawater meet."

A large eyebrow was raised.

Alfred's cheeks puffed. He thought what he was going for was obvious but Arthur wasn't cottoning on.

He huffed. "Salt Meadows...in Virginia..."

"…"

God, he was getting frustrated. "Virginia wouldn't be Virginia without the ocean. Can you imagine how different it'd be?"

"..."

Fine. He couldn't be subtle.

Goodbye sense of pride.

"If it's too hot...or too cold...daffodils don't grow well. The…the sea regulates temperatures for coasts a-and islands."

 _Regardless of our clashes...I wouldn't be here, if not for you._

"Alfred?" Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

"Dammit! I wanted to do a fancy extended metaphor for our relationship, too! You went off about castles, but I don't have castles. I mean, like bonafide, legit ones. And I don't think I could make construction sound fancy, even though I've worked on lots of projects. So I went for flora because flora is always romantic, but it didn't work."

Both eyebrows shot up. "Aha."

"Fine! No poetry. Fine…fine…I…I'm…sorry I hurt your feelings. When I sing it…I think of those flowers and all the times I felt lonely. You can really learn a lot about flowers when you're outside all the time. I saw tons. I had…I had enough time to memorize. I always did. That song is…something to me I…it wasn't just because of you…other times as well. I mean, I remembered the loneliness even if I couldn't remember Osha or Sarah. Being alone in the fields knowing no one was coming. I know I'm not making sense. But my feelings are all swirly. It just hurts the worst with you because I…I just…I l-l-l-"

"Alfred-"

"-so much."

Alfred's face was cupped gently. "Alfred, I accept your apology. Thank you for telling me why you sing it."

There.

That was as honest as he could make it.

So why did he feel so…crappy?

Arthur pulled him into his arms. "Shh, it's alright, love. I shouldn't have asked with so many watching us. That made it difficult."

His back was rubbed and patted.

"It's alright. I'm here."

And it's childish, and vicious, and exacting, and selfish, but he wants to extract another promise:

Like the first, under the shade of their tree: _You have to love me for forever._

Here, under the light of the moon, the second one almost left his lips: _You have to be here for me, forever._

But he fought it, braced himself against it, tried to kill it.

Because it was monstrous and unfair and uncompromising.

Arthur laughed softly in his ear, as lightly and easily as he had the first time.

And he knew the wish had made itself known through their bond.

"I promise."

* * *

Hawaii put a hand on her hip as she stonily eyed the barista, "Did I stutter, sweetie?"

"Quad it is."

She needed that espresso goodness if she was going to make it through her usual mid-morning slump.

She really wished they carried guava cream cheese danishes here the way they did at home. Those breakfast bars Rhys got the previous night just didn't cut it and they'd all needed to stop for a pick-me-up.

Rhys was behind her on the phone for the upteenth time checking on something. It felt like he was always on it; he was probably one of those phone addicts recent studies were warning about...Or maybe she should try and shuffle the deck and switch vans—for her own sanity as much as to indulge Tex who was desperate to jump ship.

" _Switch with me, pleeeeeease! This is supposed to be a Bro-trip," he whined as they walked through the parking lot._

 _Puerto Rico made a rude gesture at him._

 _Tex crossed his arms moodily. "You're my_ _ **brother**_ _...you're not my **Bro**."_

 _When Spain sent him a warning look, Tex grumbled, "And you're my cross to bear," while giving the rosary around his neck a flick._

Out of the corner of Momilani's eyes she watched as Rhys shifted his stance. "Good. See to it. I'm depending on you."

The Welshman slid his phone back into his pocket.

"Momilani," she offered as the barista stood poised with a pen in hand.

"How do you sp-"

"M-O-M-I-"

Afterwards, she went to wait with the others; it was agreed that a slower pace might help Alfred relax.

And she really wanted him to.

Poor baby just couldn't catch a break.

And he was trying so hard to keep pace with them.

He could be so stubborn.

It reminded her of his earliest visits to her lands as a Protestant missionary.

He came in a prim, three-piece suit that had a pocket-sized Bible and he refused to dress down. He'd already been seasick and then he promptly passed out from heat exhaustion.

Because...no...Virginia humidity didn't compare to hers.

She and Tex took that as an invitation to strip him and hide his clothes while he recovered in her thatched hale.

He wasn't a very good sport about wearing a malo but...Hawaii had cheerfully offered in what broken English she had mastered that it was that or nothing.

It stayed on.

He was so funny about being naked. Why even that morning, he'd given her a warning—pointing his finger and declaring that whatever things she needed to tell him that cropped up in the next five minutes could wait.

He watched her like an iolani, before disappearing into the bathroom.

Okay, fine. She did sometimes interrupt to tell him things.

Maybe if both her pearl babies were similar in their feelings, she could break the habit.

But Tex, while just as stubborn as his brother, didn't have the same hangups.

He'd wear the malo if he got to wear his hat.

And he hadn't cared during his Wild West days if she came out to ask him a question while he bathed in a barrel.

He still didn't care.

If he was running late, she could poke her head in and tell him to hurry the hell up...like she did three hours ago.

They were just different.

Again she wished Alaska had come on the trip. Sure, he often left her chattering in the silence but he spoke when it mattered and with such insight...it was easy to feel safe with him nearby.

He knew Alfred and Texas better than even they probably suspected.

She felt like she knew them too...she just couldn't guess their endgame the way Alaska could.

Reilley grimaced at his cup, "Yanks can't make tea."

She rolled her eyes. Oh yeah, because that was the real disaster underway.

"You just gotta hold on. I'm gonna make sweet tea once we make it to the site," Tex promised between sips of his coffee.

Alfred stared longingly at his brother's styrofoam cup.

He _**had**_ gone an awfully long time without a Starbucks treat.

Maybe she could slip him a teensy drink or two.

Arthur seemed to sense her caving will because green eyes were suddenly on her.

Those eyes always caught her off guard.

She, Alaska, Molossia, and Tex all had brown. It was just Al that was their token light eyed, fair haired one.

And yes, for a long while, his blue eyes had unnerved her. They just didn't seem as friendly and warm as soil brown eyes did.

Compared to his father's hard olivine eyes…though…

"They called your name," Arthur informed her.

"Right."

She eagerly got out from under that stare.

When she returned, she found Arthur halving his pastry with Alfred while reminding him to make use of his napkin.

She supposed it was a softer tone than what she'd gotten.

Alfred believed in him and his faith had to be enough for her too. She knew firsthand that the Englishman could settle him during an episode. And last night she'd watched, nearly dumbfounded, as Alfred accepted a foot massage from him.

Her pearl baby was never very keen on being touched and his feet were sensitive.

It was a neon sign of trust.

It was just…

She had trouble putting her finger on it.

Maybe it boiled down to the fact that Arthur just wasn't a real friendly fellow. He hadn't been especially charming in the 1780s either, (unlike Portugal who'd not only come before him but had been extremely handsome, and he brought her the best instrument ever: the ukulele) but the reality that _this_ was England at his softest…

She knew they were doing their best to perform Hoʻoponopono, but they were having trouble restoring harmony to their relationship.

And while she knew Alfred contributed plenty to that...it was easier to blame Arthur. He was so cold.

She watched Arthur eye the plastic cutlery with disdain but still maneuver it well enough to dine with the elites.

He was reserved and he'd taught Alfred to be the same; secrecy and discord brewed illness.

On her islands in times past, when a child fell sick parents were taken to task. Was there quarreling in the household? The wrongs of a father could fall on his offspring.

She pulled out her drink's straw and licked some whipped cream off the end before pointing it at him. "I still can't believe your queen didn't tell you and you didn't suspect anything. I thought you Brits were all mystery masters and could sleuth out anything?"

He gave her a deeply irritated look; it was interesting how dangerous that expression was on him. On Alfred it was the same scrunching of features but an agitated Al just looked funny, even when he'd been a man.

But you couldn't laugh because it hurt his star-spangled little feelings.

Arthur set his utensils down. "What was there to be suspicious of? The settlement failed and I accepted it as a natural result since no...since there was no...no…" Something hard in him faltered and memories of pain seemed to flash over his face.

She fidgeted. "Oh…"

No personification...no baby.

Arthur stared her down. "Considering how the others attempts failed too...I-I just thought it wasn't to be."

Alfred looked up and leaned against Arthur, who seemed to take comfort in the action. He reached down and carefully brushed a crumb away from the corner of Alfred's mouth.

"You know what I can't believe?" Alfred interrupted.

"What, sweetling?" Arthur looked grateful for a diversion.

"That John Smith kept his big fat mouth shut. I mean, that guy was a Grade A blabbermouth."

"Wot?" Arthur blinked as he processed that and then his jaw dropped, "H-he knew?! He knew you were-"

"Well yeah, I mean, why did _**you**_ think we hung out so much? I mean, you can only hear his stories so many times. Heck, I can probably tell them now. Anyways, he said there were others like me. And if I was good, he'd bring my water-father to me or me to him. Dude, when I think of all the trade negotiations and treaties and prisoner releases I got roped into on account of that hope…" Alfred gave an exasperated smile. "He sure knew how to work an angle that guy. He...Dad?"

Arthur's teeth were gritted as he muttered, "I wondered how he kept getting out of trouble at home...blackmail. They didn't want him sharing…" His fists clenched and the knuckles went white. "And you're correct, he knew how to press an advantage. Told me once while we were in passing that what he'd found was as good as gold…was worth a hundredfold..."

Hawaii edged back, aware that if he slammed the table in his anger he'd likely snap it in half.

"Dad?"

"One more ship. One more expedition and on his return he boasted that I'd fill a barge with Spanish doubloons to have what he'd discovered. That's why he was so desperate-"

"Daddy?"

Hawaii winced; America just wasn't very good at reading the atmosphere.

England was clearly feeling betrayed and undermined by the humans that surrounded him then and now. Adding one more...wasn't helping.

Alfred tugged at the Briton's elbow. "Don't be angry! He taught me lots of things. Like business!"

Arthur's eyes flashed.

Maybe that's what unnerved her about him, he reminded her of a storm.

The sea element in him she could handle. She was a master surfer, she could ride out those highs and lows.

But there was lightning in him.

"-when he saw how they shunned me whenever I traded on my own. He came with me and started giving me odds and ends. He showed me that if you had something, somebody _**really**_ wanted. They'd trade with you...even if they didn't like you."

Apparently, that was a prized gem because Alfred's whole face lit up as he shared it. And if history proved anything, it was that it became a policy he lived by.

She watched Arthur's face darken.

Alfred had cheerfully labeled Tex a tornado, herself an undertow, and Alaska an avalanche.

Well, she'd name England a hurricane.

And he looked ready to do damage.

It was like standing in the sand as ominous clouds sped near.

It wouldn't be until they were loading back into the vans, after Tex had gleefully pounced on her offer to switch vehicles, that she mused about Alfred.

Years back when she'd asked what disaster America was, he'd smiled wryly.

" _Isn't it obvious? I'm an earthquake...I shake things up!"_

* * *

Read & Review Please! : D


	41. Chapter 41

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. I don't own Graceland, Rockabilly Hall of Fame, Memphis Zoo, Dinosaur World, Rolling Stone's _Wildhorses,_ Dixon Gallery and Gardens, Mel Tillis's _I Got the Hoss (And She Got the Saddle), Fort Necessity_ and its website _,_ _Family Pie Shop,_ the Texas National Videogame Museum, Star Wars, James Bond, Mission Impossible, _Rosebriar Dining in the Country, Three Musketeers_ or _Starbursts_ (which supposedly are two leading Halloween favs when it comes to Texas and candy, or _Romeo and Juliet_.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Being mean to the Irish and the Irish being mean back.

 **AN:** Special thanks to my reviewers for the last chap! I know it takes extra time to comment and I appreciate it. Good Lord it took me an era and a half to get this one done and I have had internet issues up the wahzoo. To the Guest: Hrmmm. I think Arthur was probably in his early to mid-teens during the crusades...so I'm gonna say 19-20ish when Al was born in the 1580s, 21 in the 1650s when they met, and then 23 by the end of the Revolution. Unasked for but Spain was probably 18-19 when he first started colonizing the Americas.

 **Chapter 41: Sunshine and Sprinkles**

* * *

Texas was antsy.

Canada point blank asked if he had ADHD.

Thankfully, Congress had also asked him that question on and off for the last two decades so he was able to suppress the strong urge to punch him for it.

It wasn't a terrible road trip...no, their Pony Express-orphan-misadventure would always clench that spot easy. Still, it would've been better if it were just him and Al.

When it was just them, they could flip a coin when it came down to running out of time and choosing one's attraction of choice over the other's. (And if one found himself overly lucky in consecutive draws, they usually picked the other's cuz...that was just how they rolled.)

Here, there were too many people. Al would kick his butt for saying so, but...it required too much democracy.

Yeah, they'd still had some fun breaks and detours along the way, like Graceland and Rockabilly Hall of Fame.

But Papi and Rico had downvoted a visit to the Memphis Zoo. Matt and the U.K.-ers championed and got a boring morning trip to the Dixon Gallery and Gardens and foisted a snooty tea party on them a few hours later.

Thankfully, he, Hawaii, and America were able to secure a side visit to the Dinosaur World in Kentucky...even though there'd been one in Texas they could've gone to! (Had flippin' been on the way!) There were plenty of photo-ops there, though he'd taken care to upload only the pictures Al approved.

Al was kinda vain and always wanted final say on that stuff. If they weren't flattering enough, his baby bro would pitch a fit or quietly sulk and it would guilt him into taking them down.

When asked, Tex insisted that his nerves were on edge because he hadn't gotten to drive. It wasn't a total lie. It was weird sharing the wheel with others and weirder having to scuttle into the backseat. If he wasn't driving, he was usually riding shotgun.

But the newcomers didn't know that...and they didn't follow their rules. Like when it came to music and how the upfront passenger usually got to rule the radio (with the driver having the power of veto).

It was a driving dictatorship on this trip; both vans insisted on the driver getting the pick of playlists which...sucked when Papi or Alistair or Rhys was at the wheel but worked out for him now...

He was speeding along I-64 and caught Alfred's eye in the mirror as Rolling Stone's _Wildhorses_ played.

That was just one of their special songs.

Because out on the plains Tex was always getting distracted by mustangs. They were so goddamn majestic. Turned his head every time. Al would glare at him whenever he zoned out of their briefings to glimpse the horses.

Even after the Civil War, he'd take advantage of Alfred's good memory and sense of duty to re-explain missions for him.

In their early days, he'd depended on Al's fluency in English and that he knew a ton of synonyms so whenever Tex stumbled on words he didn't know, Al had a substitute and jackpot, Tex swiftly mastered new vocabulary terms.

Then, he got to liking Al's version of things better than their superior's because Al had a better sense of humor. And he always loved hearing Al's deadpan delivery of " _And then we'll run like chickens with our heads off and hope for the best, soldier."_

He'd complained a lot about Tex's distractibility and his inability to prioritize.

" _They're just horses, Tex."_

And that had made for a nasty argument.

Because Al just didn't understand what they and their wild sense of freedom meant to someone like him. By the time they were done, things were pretty sore and sour between them.

Tex eventually calmed down. There was something about being alone in their tent and not seeing him at mealtimes and not drinking coffee or sneaking alcohol or pitching pennies into cups during their off hours (so they'd win at fairs) made him lonesome.

And if he cooled off, Al got downright frosty.

Whenever they did meet up for a drill or exercise, Al wouldn't react at all...he'd treat Tex like a total stranger.

And if that wasn't enough to leave Tex low, he'd often let the other boot drop a few days later when the divvying of missions came.

He'd braced himself for latrine digging duties but…

His brother threw him for a loop.

Al pulled some strings alright and got him a mission that would let him travel south to a climate he was better suited for and along rivers that would bring him close to the mustangs' habitat.

The only drawbacks being he'd have to go through Indian territory and...they would be separated.

Al had secured Tex's mission by accepting a position in the Nebraska territory manning a fort. And he realized what Al had really been arguing about and the minute it did…

Tex felt a grin come over his face.

The minute it did, he called him out on it. Hoo boy, right in front of the whole regiment.

Alfred smiled as Tex sang the chorus to him.

It was during Mel Tillis's _I Got the Hoss (And She Got the Saddle)_ that England dryly remarked, "I see the pattern. Now, let someone else choose a song or I'll kick the back of your seat until we crash."

He scowled. Tch. No appreciation for classics. And that song wasn't really about horse riding. But he wasn't gonna get into that. He was pretty sure that would shock Al, too.

"Finefinefine. Aaaaaal, _you_ pick."

And that's how they wound up with the soundtrack to Star Wars.

And it served the limey right.

He gave a mean smile when Arthur's eyebrows twitched.

His takeaways thus far were that island nations could not handle long car trips. Puerto Rico kept playing with the door locks and the U.K.-ers got surly real fast in close quarters.

Hawaii was clearly an exception to the rule, or maybe it was that she'd traveled around the mainland in a covered wagon before. It did a hell of a lot in increasing one's sense of patience; an hour in a wagon versus an hour in a car? Your butt could tell you the difference easily.

Or maybe it was cuz the U.K. gang were just so prissy so nothing ever really made them happy.

Except maybe spoiling other people's joy. They'd nixxed Tex's suggestions (before they'd left his state to drop by the National Videogame Museum. They'd also downvoted Sky Zone.

The only thing that he'd gotten to pick out special was visiting the _Family Pie Shop_ in Arkansas.

Everything else was shot down almost as soon as it left his mouth.

He'd pretty much accepted that they were no-fun-sourpuss-sticks-in-the-mud with Rhys being the most inflexible of the bunch (he actually used a pocket flashlight to check that everyone in both vans had their seatbelt on) and would read the ingredients on stuff and inspect hotel rooms for bugs and mold and disagree with Tex's tastes in just about everything. It was always a relief when, during their musical chair like van arrangements, he didn't end up in a vehicle with him.

Still, it threw him for a bit of a loop that Alfred (for all his complaints over the years about United Kingdom stuffiness) really didn't mind them and their antics.

 _Alfred tugged him over to the side after they were parked and heading into a fast food joint. "I know. I know. They're getting your goat. But...dude, they're old. They're all...really_ _ **oooold**_ _. They're gonna be crotchety. You gotta roll with it. Daaad's the youngest of the bunch. C'mon, there's your sign."_

And he insisted that they DID have a sense of humor, it was just different...and yeah, usually at someone's expense. And if that wasn't the case, it usually involved trains. Yeah, trains.

" _They're island-dwellers, Tex. And it's rainy and miserable 99 percent of the time. They had to find something to tickle themselves with...it's trains. And making fun of the French."_

" _Well, that's just easy to do," Tex shrugged._

Ugh. Europeans. His dad was just as bad. There was just something "ew" about a man who preferred mass transit over automobiles...over having a steering wheel, the modern reigns in his hands! Highways were meant to be made and driven on. Trains were meant for freight, not folks.

And maybe he'd been in too many crashes to like them.

Papi had asked him not too long ago when he was sick why he didn't like taking them.

Tex couldn't remember how it came up.

Spain was all for them because blah blah blah, Madrid Metro.

Tex was against them.

Because communism.

That's why.

Papi let it go after that with a cheerful, _"Okay, Toni. I think it's medicine time, now."_

He'd have to set him straight on the matter at some point. Because if he couldn't ride a horse somewhere than motorcycle or a truck were the next best thing.

Damn.

He was getting all worked up.

He needed to escape all the Euros.

He thought he'd get the opportunity a few hours later when they pit stopped for lunch.

He and Al were heading to a booth at the end when they caught sight of Rhys sitting at a table with a pant leg rolled up, rubbing his bruised shin.

England was standing a few paces away, shaking his head. "I told you to make him sleep on a cot or better, the floor. But-"

"I could've bunked with Uncle Reilley," Alfred asserted. "Or he could've been moved over with Hawaii and me. She'd have won-"

"No," Rhys murmured gravely. "That would've been cruelty. Just...appreciate my sacrifice for your continued wellbeing."

Alfred laughed and skipped over to his Welsh uncle and whispered loudly, "We could tape a 'No Irish Need Apply' to the door?"

"I HEARD that, you rossie!" Reilley tried to box Alfred's ear but Arthur snatched his wrist before he completed the action.

"They're a violent people," Alfred stated solemnly.

Rhys's lips twitched.

Which surprised Tex, since Snobby just wasn't the smiling type.

He was even more taken aback when Al crawled onto Rhys's lap; his bro's reasoning being that the booth was too cramped to accommodate them all even after Scotland and Northern Ireland dragged over more chairs and arranged them at the end.

Tex tapped a toe against the floor's tiles. He'd kinda assumed that he and Al would take a table elsewhere so they could discuss the folder Stuart dropped off.

Turned out Stuart wasn't playing along with their James Bond Mission Impossible sense of humor. The file was marked TOP SECRET because it was.

Alfred's spirits had been flagging because of it. Sure, he'd tried to be all smiles but he was off...and that made Tex even antsier.

They'd expected Colonel Harris's signature to be on it, but it was the other two names on the photocopy of the old paperwork that had them questioning everything they thought they knew.

He'd planned on them discussing that over fries and milkshakes but…

He watched Arthur slide in beside Rhys and Al and head him off at the pass. Great. Now, he couldn't even sit next to his little brother.

Antonio waved from the next booth over, "¡Oye, mijo! We are right here. I already got us napkins! Now, sit with your hermano and I will take a picture of you two for my Facebook cover."

He glanced back at Al's cramped booth. Mathieu was showing them a video on his phone and they were all crowding in to see.

Dammit...he just couldn't shake the feeling that he was losing America to his pre-Revolution family.

And Tex's own melodramatic, loser relatives were ready to re-absorb him.

And it all boiled down to them being pulled apart like that one...uh...Shakespeare play with the Reds and the Blues? Dammit, he was usually awake for the first ten minutes of that one.

He looked at the Spanish table then back at the British one and then back again.

He shuddered at the idea of being cramped on some uncomfortable set of bleachers with his whole stupid family drunk off their asses with tequila watching a stupid soccer game during a downpour of muggy rain.

"Mijo, you cold? ¿Necesitas tu chaqueta?"

Dammit! He didn't wanna be with the Reds!

"Baby? You okay?" Hawaii asked while holding a tray of food.

* * *

Arthur was warming up to this whole "road trip" concept. It was definitely a looser ship to be sure, but the appeal was there. More relaxed. There was an ebb and flow of sorts. One chose attractions as they went along and, given they weren't too far off from the main route, detours were made.

By the grace of the internet and satellites, one could see a wide array of palatable options. And he'd been able to phone _Rosebriar Dining in the Country_ two days before they traveled through. They had been able to add their party to an afternoon tea that was already in the works.

And while it may have been arrogant to think so...he privately thought his accent had persuaded them to be so accommodating.

It was heartening to see that some American establishments still valued the elegance of tea time. He could tell his brothers had appreciated the bit of normalcy. And there was just something about seeing Alfred holding a floral print teacup. Sure, it was filled with milk and honey rather than tea but…

O, it just sent his heart aflutter. Rhys sent him several pictures to cherish the moment.

Speaking of the child, Arthur readjusted his hold on the steering wheel and turned the air conditioning down because Alfred's teeth were chattering and it was only a matter of time before it jolted him out of his restful slumber.

The boy needed a blanket but he was reluctant to put Mathieu, who was also kipping, to the task.

Since being made aware of the lad's insecurities, he was hesitant to make requests that could come across as him being more concerned about one than the other.

And so it left...

"Texas," he hissed softly.

Spain gave him an odd look but aided him, "Mijo!"

"Huh? What?" Tex pulled an earbud out.

"England," Spain prompted.

"Fetch one of the blankets I packed in that box won't you? For Alfred? He's cold."

"Get one for you as well, Toni."

Texas looked over at Alfred for a beat and then immediately undid his seat buckle to reach for the box.

"Toni!" Antonio yelped.

Trust Arthur's brothers' vehicle to pull alongside them then.

Reilley rolled down his window and flicked him the V's while Alistair revved the engine.

Hawaii gave them a "rock on" gesture.

Arthur gripped the steering wheel feeling the age old hard tug of sibling rivalry.

"Don't you dare, Inglaterra," Spain hissed from the passenger seat. "We have all the niños! And mi hijo is-"

It was rare that he felt grateful for the other man's presence. And an uncommon occurrence for him to be the voice of reason.

He was quite right.

Arthur let the other vehicle speed away, watching Reilley give them a parting rude gesture and leaning half out of a rolled down window.

He'd fix them alright. "Text them that they're now in charge of checking us all in at the hotel."

"Son bárbaros," Spain agreed as he pulled out his phone.

* * *

Tex glanced up at a woodpecker pecking a metal pole, and was pretty sure judging from the stream of French leaving Matt, who was doubled over with his hands on his knees, that he too was praising the lord that they'd managed to survive Rico's turn at the wheel that morning.

Al's verdict had been: _"Dudes, that was pretty exciting."_

Tch. In the worst way.

Needless to say, Rico was now banned from driving.

"Why were you trying to kill us?" Antonio demanded as Rico stomped past in a sulk.

"I was just driving!"

"Like a bloody lunatic," Arthur sniffed.

Tex snorted loudly at that, "Like you got any room to talk."

At first Arthur dared to look affronted and then Tex reminded him, "Side-wall skiing."

He had the grace to get a little flustered.

Still, at least there'd been no fender benders so Tex was willing to let it all slide, granted that Rico was banished to the back-backseat indefinitely.

Unfortunately, Wales was a slow driver and now, thanks to Rico, they had time to kill while the other van caught up. So, they stopped for gas and snacks.

The entrance door of the gas station chimed as Texas entered. The fact that it was an electronic one over an old-fashioned bell, was a subtle signal that this place was fairly well off and that more of the food in this spot would be fresh.

But the prices of everything would be steeper.

It must've been an Old World thing; their parents always went for higher line stuff even though there were cheaper places around (you just had to be savvy at those places, and never pay with cards).

He'd teased them last night about the swankier hotel the lot of them had chosen—far roomier and plusher than the motel Tex had secured on their first night.

" _We are old, mijo, softer mattresses are a must."_

" _We're about to go camping, Papi. Ya know? On the ground? Hard and flat? Roughing it?"_

" _That is why I pack air mattresses...and you shouldn't choose shady motels, mijo."_

" _Papi, I'm Texas-tough. I can handle drug lords, and banditos, and-"_

" _Why would you choose to sleep where these people are present!?"_

 _Tex blinked. For a long time, his and Al's budgetary needs hadn't made alternatives feasible and later...well...he and Al were super strong and they liked adventuring._

 _But when he said all that Rico shook his head and smirked while Spain crossed himself and thanked the Virgin for guarding Tex as well as she could._

 _Rico clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Tch. You are_ _ **so**_ _dumb. Maybe Mex lost on purpose to get rid of you?"_

He huffed and scoured his surroundings.

It was seeming like a candy bar, maybe a Three Musketeers or some Starbursts, would be his best bet for improving his mood until movement out of the corner of his eye snagged his attention.

It was torture...pure and simple...watching Alistair move before a cigarette display.

"Aye," the Scotsman nodded to the attendant and gave the glass a hard tap. "Tha's the one."

Marlboro. Tex shifted from foot to foot. He licked his lips. Good choice.

A warm puff or ten of one of those could ease his nerves.

And the first cigarette after a long time of abstinence always gave the greatest buzz. He'd feel alert and at ease at the same time—poised to seize the day, roll with the punches, and come out on top.

It was forbidden and exciting and terrible.

It was a weird kind of hunger. Feeding it or starving it never made it go away.

You could get it to sleep and that was just about it...and it was always ready to wake up.

He stared at the logo.

He already knew the taste would let him down because...as soothing as it was, it always ended up frustrating him in the end. They paled in comparison to the cigs he used to get, the best ones, the ones he'd never get again because Al closed shop. Even though it was lucrative. Even though it was one of their best avenues of income. Even though Al's salary as a baker never compared.

And all because one morning, Texas had sat down for breakfast and coughed and spat and choked and gurgled. And when he'd reanimated, all of Al's tobacco plants were piles of ashes.

And he could never be motivated into the business again.

Tex took a deep breath and swiveled on his heel to get a hold of himself and—

Found himself barely an inch away from Antonio.

"Eep."

"You want an ice cream?" the man blurted, green eyes blazing with an almost unholy gleam.

"Uhhh, sure?"

He was nearly dragged to the other side of the store to select a dessert.

Rico's jaw dropped. "He gets an ice cream?!"

"You said you wanted chips!" Antonio snapped.

Tex willed himself not to look out the window where Alistair was enjoying his "treat."

* * *

England was scrolling through messages on his phone while he waited for the van's tank to fill with petrol.

Olivia was alerting him to Jake's latest dangerous stunt: base jumping.

Good God, the lad was trying to kill him with worry.

It wasn't even legal in Australia.

Just when he was getting Canada and America both safely tucked underwing, another went and endangered himself.

Was his risk-taking a cry for attention?

He'd need to call him and sort this nonsense out.

Before he could dial, he was abruptly confronted by Texas in low tones. It was strange how a young man with an ice cream cone could be vaguely threatening yet the boy managed.

"Are you going to be a butt?" was the query.

He was strongly tempted to answer 'Yes' for no other reason than that the lad had to be goading him, but he exercised inhuman restraint and merely raised an eyebrow.

The Texan crossed his arms and huffed. "I...I wanna do a nice thing for Al. Don't look at him."

Too late.

Al had already reentered the van after visiting the loo and getting a snack (under the condition that he didn't eat the entire tube of Pringles) and was watching them from his booster seat and struggling to undo his restraints to better snoop on them.

"IwannatakehimtoFortNecessitydon'ttellhimit'sasurprise."

Arthur blinked.

Fort Necessity?

Fort Nece-

Oh! He barely bit back a groan of exasperation. Bloody hell, that was a Washington tourist site!

He reflected over Texas's proposal and translated: _Arthur, dear boy, would you be terribly inconvenienced if we made a jaunt to jolly old Fort Necessity to boost Alfred's morale? Even though it dredges up painful memories for you?_

It hadn't escaped him that Alfred seemed worse for wear.

He was getting more listless as they approached their destination, his smile turned more plastic.

Arthur would have to assure him that they were family, not guests, everything didn't have to go perfectly for them to have a pleasant trip.

Or perhaps it wasn't that at all.

He frowned. Maybe he was having flashbacks of his time with Osha? Did he have to travel through these woods to get to Virginia and was only remembering now?

Tex moved himself in front of the window to block them from view.

"He's gettin' better with readin' lips," he replied as an explanation. "It's just…" he lowered his voice. "If you come and you're a jerk, he'll try to be happy for me and just ignore you. And if you don't come, he'll still try to play it off like he's all sunshine and sprinkles. And he'll say it doesn't matter and we'll all pretend like that's true but he'll be sad inside. And the nice thing I tried to do will be ruined and it'll be your fault. And you better sleep with an eye open-"

Arthur shifted his weight.

It was...actually a little embarrassing now.

He'd made such a bloody fuss over the Revolution for so long...no one believed he was over it. Naturally, it would always be a sad memory for him as an Empire and father and he'd always question alternate ways it could've played out.

But it was hardly the injury it had once been.

Everything was different.

The circumstances, Alfred's viewpoints, the reality of Arthur's own obstinacy…

They were reconciled!

It was laid to rest.

Still, he bristled at the insinuation that his son's happiness caused him pain. And that he would act in a manner to deliberately sabotage it.

Thus, three hours later found him at Fort Necessity enduring the praises of Washington...the upstart.

He took great care not to complain about anything as he maneuvered past historically garbed mannequins and dumbed down bullet point summaries of his and France's rivalry. He and Rhys shared a scoff over the highly sympathetic rendering of George Washington's social climbing endeavors. But they did so only when Alfred was far out of earshot.

There really wasn't much to see out of doors, in Arthur's opinion, but Alfred did look "right" here.

Perhaps, it was an odd thing to think so, given how desperately he'd tried to keep the boy out of the often disputed and dangerous territory during the 1700s but...

Sunlight gleamed on his son's wheat hair and the swaying meadow grasses made the years melt away.

Alfred grinned and posed with the Junior Ranger Badge he'd earned by completing a set of children's activities.

Arthur pulled out his phone to snap a picture...or five.

They avoided the bookstore as preemptive measure because Alfred sighed "bookcases keep triggering me." England was rather relieved to not have to survey the souvenirs with feigned interest.

England half-wished the museum (which wasn't open anyway since it's operating season began May 1st) was still a true tavern because he could use a stiff drink after enduring several hours of concentrated American patriotism with a pleasant expression on his face. Particularly, when it seemed very much like Texas was trying to provoke him into acting out.

Still, seeing Alfred buzz around with a genuine smile that brought out his dimples and made his eyes shine with undiminished awe of a leader left Arthur feeling a bit conflicted.

The first emotion was easy to identify: jealousy.

He'd always begrudge the human for having such an effect on his offspring and unseating him as the boy's most highly esteemed mentor.

The second emotion was also...jealousy. It must've been nice to be so tall and broad and impressive. Arthur had been tall for the middles ages. Why, he'd been fairly tall for the 17th and 18th centuries! But he just...didn't cut the same heroic figure as that man had. Alfred no doubt noticed.

The third was...grief.

Alfred's adoration was so familiar and it inspired his aching over Elizabeth again.

All the faithful service he'd given Good Queen Bess.

All the hopes he'd shared in confidence with her.

How could she have used him thus?

His hand was patted softly, almost nervously, and Arthur caught the fingers with his own, intending to assure Alfred for the fourth time that he was perfectly alright.

Alfred spoke first.

"You're still allowed to like her," the child stated.

Arthur froze. "Wot?"

A pox on errant thoughts.

' _Her'_...how much had Alfred picked up?

Alfred's fingers curled around his. "It's…it's like what you were saying about _us_ not being perfect. We're...we're _people_ …"

Arthur blinked. Sooo, that was still a fascinatingly new concept to Alfred.

"We make mistakes and how that's okay if we use them to get better, right? Like how you said, you're a better person now that you're...a dad rather than...who you were."

Arthur nodded hesitantly, not quite sure where this train of thought was headed.

"Humans aren't perfect either."

Arthur stared. Alfred had a real talent for twisting his words. It was like what he said got fed immediately into a blender and then was splattered on a canvas like some rubbish Pollock painting.

"It was a bad thing. What she did...to us."

 _Easy, Arthur ol' boy. He's seven...he's seven years old and he's trying to make sense of it all. Breathe._

"But yeah…" Alfred nodded. "Elizabeth did bad things. I mean, Mary Queen of Scots got beheaded, right? And she'd been a guest...what a sucky host. People got imprisoned on whims and stuff? Conspiracies? Looting sea dogs...Doesn't mean she didn't do good things too. For the arts and trade and exploration...she was a person."

Arthur tensed. He was NOT ready for this conversation to resume.

Because not telling one's trusted advisor, protector, _**FRIEND**_! that he'd fathered a child, not sending aid to said child who'd only been in constant mortal peril, and then attempting to cover up that poor neglected child's seeming death and existence…

There was a small hand in his so he couldn't afford to tighten his grip.

He swallowed and forced another breath.

..1...2...3...4...

"Like Andrew Jackson!" Alfred chirped.

Arthur grimaced.

5! 6! 7! 8! 9! 10!

"Yeah," Alfred snickered. "But Andrew Jackson's a good example. I mean, Trail of Tears. Dude, full stop. And then there was his war on the bank which was…yeah. But a war hero through and though. I mean, he was a freedom fighter despite being an orphaned little kid in the Revolution."

Arthur breathed hard through his nose and prayed for patience.

"-Dad was dead. Mom died because of that war. Both of his big brothers died because of redcoats. Didn't scare him away from the frontline. He's famous for the Battle of New Orleans. And then, when he lost his first run for the presidency cuz there was the Corrupt Bargain, he didn't give up. He ran again later and succeeded. He really championed the common man and fought the status quo. And that's just some stuff that gets bulleted down in books and on blogs. He was an orphan with a soft spot for orphans."

Arthur watched the child's face soften.

"He adopted his nephew and raised him. That was his kid. Hell, the way he acted. They were all his kids. See, he was the legal guardian of tons of kids. Your dad died? BAM! Your new dad is Jackson. Even if your bio mum is still alive. And then there were grandkids, too. There were always kids running around, man. He was totally cool with Tex and me being two teen boys with no home and no manners and inviting us in. Even though, he knew and…well, you can guess...we were trouble with a capital T-"

"For Texas!" the other boy threw in from across the room.

"You don't even know what we're talking about!" Al snapped over his shoulder, but his face gave way to a fond smile. "Interrupter!"

Tex stuck his tongue out.

Alfred chuckled. "Yeah, we've still got no manners. Anyways, Tex smoked hard and drank harder. I drank and gambled. But when we stayed with him, we had to reign ourselves in and clean ourselves up. Uncle Andy took no excuses and when we missed curfew, we earned babysitting duty."

Alfred made a face and then broke off into happy reminiscent laughter. "That was such hell...and with hangovers..." Then he smiled into the sunshine. "People are complicated. So, Elizabeth was good and bad. That's…that's allowed, right?"

In a perfect world where he'd lived a different life, he would agree.

His voice was deep and low. "Her actions hurt-"

"-You a lot. I get it. I do and I'm sorry for it." Alfred squeezed his hand and turned to him. "I just mean, I don't want you to cross off all the good times. I mean, I know your outfits were awful and everybody probably smelled like feet and wore tons of lead makeup but you prize the Elizabethan Era. I know it! It's special. Your Shakespeare and your ships and your history and her! You have tons of paintings of h-"

He laughed darkly in response.

"O, sweet." He reached with his free hand and set his fingers over those soft, wheat-gold locks. "If it were only me she wronged, it would be forgiven."

He wasn't lying.

Alfred frowned in puzzlement.

In a heartbeat.

If it were only him...

Arthur knelt down and enveloped him in a tight embrace.

"Her choice hurt _**you**_."

And despite all the centuries of sermons he'd heard in Celtic Christian Mass, then Catholic Mass, and then Protestant…

No.

He couldn't turn the other cheek.

* * *

Read & Review Please! : D


	42. Chapter 42

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or Pancake Party restaurant.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). An unflattering angle of Quaker pacifism particularly from a British and military view.

 **AN:** Hope everybody's getting stoked for All Hallow's Eve! And here's a chapter to help get you in the mood. Thank you for your reviews and continued interest :D You've probably noticed my helter-skelter updating lately. That's cuz I've been having internet issues and it sucks to pay absurd rates for what you aren't getting…sooo had to give a door slam to that. I'm currently in the market for a new provider and until I've got one…that means updating via public/café wifi while juggling work shifts. I guess this is all just a long way of saying, if it feels like it's taking me forever to cobble a chapter together…you're right. It is literally taking me more time. Sooo bear with me folks, I am having technical difficulties. But I have written an extra long chap sooo there is that! : D Enjoy : D Happy Early Halloween!

 **Chapter 42:** **Fun-stomping Troll People**

* * *

Arthur was watching the trees speed by while Alfred babbled happily from topic to topic. The child had a hold of Arthur's hand and was playfully examining his fingers and gently testing their dexterity—bending and flexing the digits.

"Rhys says lots of things can be gleaned from people's hands. About their character and strengths and stuff-"

"Palmistry," Arthur agreed, lifting his hand to tickle under the child's chin and earning a giggle.

He returned to staring at a multitude of green foliage.

Green was always a soothing color to him; every hue was a shade of home.

Mother's eyes, the leaves of trees, grass, and the sea...

Not too long ago a sign announced that they'd entered Fayette County.

He felt a deep-seated relief at the sight of an old-growth forest.

Maybe he couldn't give Alfred what he'd grown up with, but there was an opportunity here to connect his child with ancient nature and the primary, elemental magic that sprang from it.

The United States had a fair amount of "virgin" remnants as they were sometimes referred to—trees and realms far older than his child.

He wondered idly if Alfred's magic and its tie to earth and plant life helped preserve all this wilderness and then frowned as he thought about this particular patch of earth.

Pennsylvania…

There was always something unruly about Pennsylvania.

Penn's woods...

Or maybe he was remembering all the troublesome Quakers...wasting his resources because he had to haul over his troops to protect them because they were pacifists at the most inconvenient moments and economic opportunists at all others. Even bodies of the slaughtered being brought to the council of the Friends failed to elicit a call to arms.

And then there was their refusing to pay taxes to raise militias and fund the people who'd be risking their necks to save their sorry ars-

 _Breathe, Arthur. The Quakers continued to be a thorn in the side of the following government as well._

But knowing Alfred had to deal with them even now didn't make him very happy either.

 _You're on holiday. Peaceful thoughts._

Alfred continued a one-man conversation like a steady motorboat; first, he was on about the historic site, then to 1700s fashion and his love-hate relationship with stockings and how much cooler Arthur's boots had been over his, and then to how fascinating he found the art of toffee and candy cane-making.

"It has to be soooo big to make such a teeny, tiny design-"

Arthur could see the brakelights of Van 2 ahead of them. Antonio and Rico had returned to the other vehicle after an early dinner at the Latin Mango Bistro. Tex did not accompany them despite Spain's complaints that the lad was "breaking formation."

There had been a fair amount of jockeying positions all throughout the trip, save for him and Alfred...he just needed them to stay together.

Alfred seemed to feel the same; he never asked to be moved. Arthur caught the child's hand and stroked his thumb over the small knuckles.

It was good to be so near.

It was just...good.

He frowned lightly. He'd need to give the little fingernails a trim. Perhaps, tonight after they were settled?

Arthur looked over to the companion on Alfred's other side. He was surprised Rhys didn't punctuate the conversation with remarks here and there or at least expressions of amusement, puzzlement, or disagreement. Particularly, when he'd been almost curiously insistent that he be with Alfred on the ride up to the campgrounds; he'd been visibly agitated when it seemed that no one was willing to budge.

Thankfully, Antonio granted him his spot. Though Rico jumping ship meant they got Hawaii back and "Team U.S.A." was reunited.

Honestly, did they have to chant that every time they met up? Rico looked annoyed at hearing it and had remarked "I'm part of that too!" as he'd opened the door to the other van.

Arthur had assumed he was going to read a story on the way up (as he wasn't afflicted by motion sickeness), but he just spent the time texting at a rapid fire speed. Rhys had been making multiple phone calls over the past few weeks. If he had so much business to take care of, it was a wonder he'd agreed to the trip at all.

Alfred's tone turned shrewd, "And then I would make you an apron labeled 'Dear Mother England.' Would you like that?"

Arthur smirked. Alfred always assumed Arthur wasn't listening when he didn't make constant affirming chatter, eye contact, or nods.

It seemed the boy honestly believed that unless he was being as loud and obnoxious and upfront as possible, he would sometimes go unnoticed. He looked over his shoulder, "Yes, I'd like that as long as I might make you one in return, 'Sweet Baby Colony.'"

He inwardly cursed tacking on the last word because "colony" tended to be an insult to the child.

But Alfred just turned red, "I-I...I walked into that one."

"You did." He gave Alfred's nose a gentle, teasing tweak. "I'm still listening, darlingheart."

"What's on your Game Plan?"

"Come again?"

"Your plan for this trip? I...I wanna make sure you get to check off your must-have's."

Arthur chuckled at the seriousness. "Oh, hmmm. I dunno, I'm pretty cream crackered to be thinking on it." But Alfred's big blue eyes were on him. He had to come up with something. "Oh, let's see. Take in the scenery and a photo or two, read, knit...maybe crochet or bird watch, prepare for Beltane's Day?"

Alfred gave a firm nod to each answer Arthur gave.

Arthur noticed that the child's seat restraint had twisted and he set it to rights so his son might be more comfortable.

"What about you, pet?"

"Umm...look around at the...uh…trees and stuff...er…walks?"

"Heh, I think we can work some hiking in."

It wasn't that Arthur was against camping but…he was a tad worried that too much activity might aggravate his ankle and knees.

The fact of the matter was that England just wasn't an empire anymore and he didn't have the pure power necessary to gloss over old wounds.

And he'd grown perilously fond of creature comforts. Already he found himself fantasizing about slipping away for an evening at a winery? Pennsylvania had plenty to choose from.

Perhaps he was a tad concerned that so much had been left to Texas's scheduling whims that he feared the boy would've deliberately chosen an unsuitable camping site.

Though…

If the terrain _**was**_ too rough, England might see about securing some rooms at Green Mills Winery, Inn and Breakfast. It was a 1730s Georgian styled estate and he could easily picture himself and his family enjoying a fine stay there.

After paying for parking, it was agreed they'd see the site first before unloading the heaviest equipment. They'd just take light burdens for now; coolers and packs.

Traveling by car had made his joints stiff and it was a mercy to be able to stand and stretch. Being able to walk across the deck of a ship was always something he missed when confined to automobiles and planes.

There was a bit of a chill in the air so he brought a small blanket—on reaching the site he might have Alfred sit and rest with him on it.

Alfred's hand slipped in his and the boy swung their hands energetically as they crossed the parking lot. It was almost strange to remember how resistant the child had been to such shows of affection mere months ago.

He felt a strong rush of paternal affection and high hopes for the trip when, on moving from the pavement to the soil, Alfred gasped.

A sharp unpleasant pain echoed through their bond, magnified by their close proximity.

He immediately sprang forward, "Are you hurt?"

He knelt, ignoring his knee popping at the abrupt action and reached for the little sneakered foot, anxious that Alfred had stepped on a nail.

"Nothing, nothing! Gust of wind!" Alfred argued. He was shivering hard enough.

Arthur immediately wrapped the blanket around Alfred and picked him up.

"I saw that," Reilley grumbled. "You choreographed that deliberately-"

Arthur ignored him and addressed his little one, "You're certain you didn't twist something?"

"M-maybe I just stepped wrong?"

Arthur pursed his lips and carefully prodded at the boy's ankle.

He'd say it could be a hereditary frailty, but Arthur's weakened ankle and knees were earned during the crusades. There was nothing natural about it.

Still, Alfred had magic feet. It could make them quite delicate. Nothing seemed amiss though...

"I'm okay, Dad."

Arthur carefully set him down and frowned as the child stiffened.

"Al-"

The boy squashed down their connection.

"Alfie, I told you I don't like that! If you're hurting then you're hurting. Talk to me." He hoisted the child back up into his arms.

"I think my legs cramped up on the trip over," the boy mumbled.

"Hmm," Arthur nodded and then encouraged him to stretch and flex the muscles carefully.

"I can carry Alfred!" Reilley volunteered, "-and YOU can carry-"

Arthur leveled him a glare.

His Irish brother glowered back. "You damn well KNOW he's lighter than a lot of the rest o' this-"

Rhys pulled Reilley by the ear.

Arthur gave the lazy sod a smug smirk—and he turned on his heel to go, but Rhys set a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back.

"Brawd bach, you haven't seen the map and don't know where we're headed."

He flushed.

"Some captain," Alistair scoffed. "Piss sense of direction. It's a wonder he ever found yeh at all, little Al. Nevermind that he was too late to help yeh with-"

"Alba." Rhys rolled his eyes.

"Gwalia," Alistair shot back.

All four brothers were giving one another annoyed looks when-

Spain's exasperated voice cut across, "Come now, Tejas. Help your brother and I with the-"

"No! I'm in charge of me and Al's stuff-"

"Tej-"

"I said, 'no!'"

"Guess I get to fend for myself," Hawaii remarked dryly as she hefted a gym bag full of supplies.

Rhys became almost...fidgety as they continued on and Arthur was about to comment on the oddity when…

Arthur blinked.

Did he hear music?

They reached their site.

And yes, soft Welsh music was playing from a stereo set strategically on a stump.

A man hailed them and Rhys hastily moved toward him, wallet in hand.

A large medieval styled shelter had been set up with LED strands of light were set all along the infrastructure.

Alistair's jaw dropped. "Son of a-"

Three pairs of eyes dared him to continue.

He wisely didn't.

Arthur took it all in, "How...how long have you been planning this?"

"Since, I knew we were meeting for Beltane's. And if everything was set to my instruction…" Rhys opened a trunk beside the entrance and smiled slightly as he reached in.

He pulled out two gifts, one was for Mathieu: a mug with several blends of tea.

The other was for Alfred: a stuffed animal. And, judging by the smug expression Rhys wore as Alfred happily crushed the soft, red dragon to his chest, handmade.

Though when he'd managed to do it, Arthur wasn't sure. It simultaneously pleased and irritated him.

He'd always feel a tender something when his brothers showered kindnesses on one of his little ones. But the fact that Arthur hadn't thought to bring or make a treat himself…

He watched the human who'd aided his brother leave. The amount of instructions that poor soul had been forced to read…Arthur almost considered giving him a tip (despite not being the tipping kind).

Alfred was inspecting all the details of his new toy. "Maybe his name should be Scales? Or Claws? Or Teeth? Maybe in Welsh?"

"I couldn't bring a real one," Rhys stated, seemingly annoyed. And he muttered something disparaging about Customs in Welsh. "But when you come to visit me, you'll see they frequent my cottage pretty regularly. And if they don't, I'll take you to a colony of them."

Alfred almost dropped the toy.

"That's just not right," Reilley complained. "You're trying to bump me farther down the list."

Arthur sidled beside his eldest brother and murmured low enough that Alfred couldn't hear, "There's no way in Hell that I'm letting you spirit him into a colony of firewyrms."

"I know the creatures and can anticipate-"

"I won't let _him_ ," he indicated Scotland "take him on a hunt. A regular hunt among humans. I'm not going to condone frolicking with supernatural predators."

Rhys scowled. "They're misunderstood beasts."

"That eat people and torch villages."

Alfred looked longingly at the medieval pavilion and resignedly at where Texas was setting up their small, military issue tent.

"Can I…play in your tent but…sleep in Tex's?"

'No' was written on Rhys's face, but he simply countered, "If you think your tent will be warm enough to preserve you through the night."

Alfred gave his brother another glance over his shoulder and murmured out of the side of his mouth, "…probably."

"We will be fine!" Tex shouted (surprising them all with his acute sense of hearing). "This is what I get for lettin' em get you all prissy again. We've camped out with NO tent. You, remember?"

"Yeah…" Alfred's eyebrows twitched in distaste. "I don't like getting bit by bugs."

"Oh come on, wakin' up with dew damp clothes and a few mosquito bites is just part of the experience. Adventure."

"…"

"I packed bug spray. For you."

"Did you pack the net?"

"Hell, no," Tex griped. He looked at England. "This is your fault. You got him hooked on those nets during WWII-"

"I just don't wanna get malaria!" Alfred wailed.

"You ain't gonna get malaria here. We haven't had a real wave since-"

"I hate yellow fever-"

"Dammit, Al."

"We're in Pennsylvania."

Arthur wordlessly pulled out a mosquito net.

Alfred's eyes brightened with relief. Alfred draped the net over himself pretending to be a ghost under a bedsheet and flounced about.

Rhys opened the entrance flap to welcome them both in and Arthur felt a simple sense of relief he hadn't known since he'd been a child.

 _The whispering of trees always seemed sinister when it was dark now that mother was...gone. He felt lonelier admitting that to himself. After the bustle and noise of Rome, his homelands felt foreign._

 _He cursed the empire again for how thoroughly the man had invaded and ruined his life._

" _Albion."_

 _He shivered and drew his arms around himself._

 _He'd bit Alistair after the latter teased him one too many times and had been shoved out of their tent to weather the night on his own._

" _Aaalibion."_

 _UnSeelie fae just weren't as nice and well-meaning as Seelie ones and he was fearful to play with the creatures of this hour._

 _His name was called once more and his fears heightened as the wind whipped shadows in a frenzy._

 _He realized belatedly that a nearby tent's flap was open. "Come, cenau arth."_

 _He shuffled forward to peer in and moonlight shone enough that he could see Rhys patting the mat he was on._

 _Arthur sagged in relief._

 _The young teen stowed his bow behind him to make room as much as to prevent Albion's curiosity from alighting on the weapon. "I know Alba's being a bugbear, you can rest here with me."_

 _And what comfort that easy invitation gave._

Arthur moved forward.

"Aaaaal," Tex whined.

And Alfred hesitated.

* * *

Texas focused hard on not hammering his hand.

"Seriously, Bro, did you see how awes-" Alfred broke off on seeing his expression.

It was too late to even fake a smile. He hastily reached for another stake.

"I guess you're bunking with them after all, huh?" He was never good at controlling his tone and the words came out as low down and bitter as they could get.

He'd been outdone. He'd given a treat that lasted an afternoon; Rhys made one that would last the trip.

"No."

He looked up and knew his face gave his relief away. Because DAMN it was hard being second fiddle, even though he got that Al wanted to be reconciled with his folks. It was just that being forced apart and grouped with his de facto-factory-setting-family made him feel so crummy.

He'd be talked over and shushed and teased…like he was a nobody again.

"Cuz I don't mind," Tex lied. He gestured to the fancy tent. "He pulled out all the stops." And made their military issue equipment look all harsh and uninviting.

"I'm with you."

"He didn't think Al would ever really know how much he appreciated that. Depended on it, really.

Especially, when everybody else always seemed to have it in for him. Always questioning him and his judgment. Always—

"You will freeze to death," Spain stated flatly—feet too close to Tex's knees.

He was looming.

Tex hated when he loomed.

"We will not," Tex grumbled as he drove another tent stake in.

Papi's earlier tones of good-natured concern, " _Ha ha, O Tejas, you are so are so far away. Papi will worry,"_ had given way to a hard, no-nonsense: "This is a bad place to set up camp."

Tex had opted to station their tent clear on the other side of the site.

"We've defended forts in worse places!" Tex spat.

Green eyes darkened. "Tejas…" he inhaled a hard breath, exhaled it, and forcibly lightened his tone. "Mijo, I…there is a cold wind blowing and you are still recovering from illness. I-"

"Done! It's set up. Too late now, I ain't setting it up again." He stood up, brushed his hands on his pants, and considered the matter over.

He scrounged around for his camera, two small pouches, and walked over to where Al had wandered off. He tended to do that whenever Tex's family appeared…like it was helpful of him to just skedaddle. Even though Tex had told him repeatedly that they didn't need privacy. Because, Hell, his family didn't know what privacy was.

Alfred was sitting down and pawing through one of Rhys's bags.

"Oi, Al, let's move out."

From the looks of what Alfred had strewn about, Rhys had ordered a portable DVD player and an accompanying stack of movies to choose from.

The bastard.

The…far-sighted…creative…organized…bastard!

Al's face fell a bit, but he jumped to his feet and gave Tex a nod.

Tex stepped back and bumped into someone sturdy. His elbow was grabbed to steady him.

"What is this, now?" Spain demanded.

"Al and I are walking out to explore the-" He shook his elbow but it wasn't released.

"No," Spain answered. "Sunset is only an hour and a half away."

Tex blinked and dug his free hand in his pocket for his phone to check that. Damn him, he was right.

Spain heaved a sigh, "Why do you not trust Papi? I know these things. I was exploring long before all of your gadgets. Why would I lie about something involving your safety?"

"Cuz parents are killjoys?" Alfred mumbled.

A very British "Wot?" volleyed that.

Alfred flinched. "Nothing!"

Spain seemed pleased to have another old grouch play back up. He gave Texas a light shake that reminded him of a puppy being scruffed; it pissed him off.

With palpable old man derision, Spain explained to England, "Tejas wants him and Al to go gallivanting right now. In the woods. Alone. He thinks this is a good idea."

"Well, he's mental. Because that's absurd and I won't allow it."

"Hey!" Alfred cut in.

Arthur ignored him and scoffed, "Sunset is only an hour and a half-"

"I KNOW, I tell him this and he makes that face." He gave Tex another light shake before sighing, "Mi pequeno cactus, if Papi could delay the sun for you and Alfredo-"

"Alfred," Tex gritted out.

"-so you could go, I would. But that is beyond me. You must play "explorers" tomorrow. It will be dark-"

"I ain't a'scared o' the dark!" he barked.

Alfred shifted a little uneasily and Tex gave him an apologetic look.

It was fine for Alfred to be afraid of that cuz Tex wasn't. And things Al wasn't, Tex was.

They could take turns being the "Brave One" and the "Scaredy One."

That was what made them work so well! Cuz both roles could be exhausting.

They could be whatever they needed to be…with each other.

* * *

Rhys eyed the water to see if it was boiling yet before settling back into his chair. Tea would help him, his brothers, and Mathieu relax before bed.

He'd packed a tin of hot chocolate powder for his nephew. It was unclear whether he'd feel able to accept it without raising his Southwestern brother's ire, but Rhys would prepare a mug anyway.

Rhys's chair was only mildly uncomfortable...as all fold-out chairs seemed to be.

Each member had painstakingly chosen out a chair at R.E.I. precisely for this: to have a place in their circle.

It was telling that Alfred had still gone for an adult sized one...with a ridiculous amount of holders and pockets. And that Texas's had two small hand-sized stick flags zip tied to the supports of his chair. It was going to cause someone an injury, Rhys was sure of it.

The next morning, after their refrigerator unit was properly set and the dimensions recorded, they could see about heading out for a final round of food supplies.

In the meanwhile, Rhys began flipping through pictures of their road trip on his phone.

One of his favorites was Mathieu at Pancake Party. The lad was brandishing a syrup dispenser in one hand and gesturing to the stack of pancakes with the other. A small genuinely cheerful smile was on his face.

There was an amusing one of Alistair and Reilley arguing with a meter maid from when they'd stopped in Memphis so Rhys and Momilani could see some shops.

Another fun one was of his nephew, Alfred, seated at the feet of a fiberglass, concrete, and steel Tyrannosaurus Rex. Alfred was more willing to take photos; it was a good sign that he was moving forward in self-acceptance.

He noted that in his booklet on Alfred and decided this camping trip may be a good opportunity for them to have some photos together. Though, he wasn't sure who he thought would benefit from that more. While it would be good for Alfred to have visible proof of someone else being on his side, Rhys was very aware that it would serve him as well.

If some malevolent magic did meddle with his nephew's memories again, he'd have a resource to employ against it.

It was vanity, pure and simple, and he was rather disappointed in himself. It hurt his ego to be forgettable.

He swiped his phone to look at the next picture.

He wished he had thought to have recorded his brother's reaction on seeing his large medieval sheepherder's tent.

It was rare for Arthur to be genuinely surprised and glad…and grateful…let alone pull him aside to try and express it.

" _Rhys...this is…" his mouth twitched into a smile. "Brill. You're quite certain the boys and I can be here? We didn't contribu-"_

" _Well, I do recall being given an invitation last Yule into a comfortable space and thought I might return the favor."_

His plans were being spoiled though; he frowned in the direction of the pup tent.

Arthur blocked his view as he selected tea tags. "He'll make his way to us. Patience."

Us.

Arthur had used "us."

For so long, Arthur had been almost absurdly possessive of Alfred and suspicious of his brothers' attempts to spend time with him; even though he insisted it was what he wanted for the child.

And now…

His face must've given him away because Arthur replied, "He said he needed me."

"..."

"He didn't just say it to placate me either."

Rhys wouldn't have dared suggest that out loud. Though inwardly, he would've questioned the sincerity of the interaction.

And he worried that Arthur would take that as a sign for him to push through with his plans for custody.

"He needs me…" Arthur repeated quietly.

Rhys wasn't sure at first why it sounded odd, and then realized it wasn't said in abrasive triumph or with desperate conviction.

"I was so relieved. With everything going to Hell around us, even after all the failures, all the obstructions and misunderstandings and...he said, ' _Yes, Father, I need you._ '"

"And now the world can burn?" Rhys suggested flatly.

"It can."

"Arthur?"

"I'm not too late."

"..."

"Finally. I...I'm not too late...I'm not replaceable, interchangeable, I haven't...I haven't lost my place I...he...needs _**me**_... _still_."

And he didn't have to be afraid anymore. His aura practically sagged in languid tranquility now that he wasn't fighting the crushing weight of insecurity.

It was terribly indulgent, but the moment was fragile so Rhys said it aloud anyway: "He loves you. He always has. You couldn't be forgotten."

Yes, his brother needed to hear that. Even if it stung to say.

"Yes." Arthur released a shuddering breath. "It always hurt to see him go with _them._ "

Faded jealousy colored the remark. _**Them**_ being Scotland and Ireland, "-nd it was better them than no one but...why not me? I'd wait and I'd hope and I'd be disappointed and sometimes there'd be a chase and a contest of wills—but that's over now." Arthur released another long breath. "It's over. He'll come to me...to us when he has need."

"They need some time to each other."

"Yes."

His brother's aura had calmed considerably.

A mixture of longheld fears being put to bed or achieving a newfound maturity

Still…

While Arthur was taking Alfred's sudden resistance well, Rhys was...peeved.

He had fully anticipated Alfred staying in his tent; it was large enough to easily house his family. He'd specifically purchased it because it could contain four air mattresses with fold up frames.

Though Alistair had pounced on Arthur's abandonment of his tent in favor of Rhys's to combine it with his own. (Rhys had been shocked that the Scotsman spent for his own one man tent.)

And had combined theirs through the aid of zip ties into a larger space for himself.

" _This isn't camping," Alistair scoffed, as he peered in, wrinkling his nose at the wicker basket Rhys had set beside the entrance for shoes._

 _Rhys didn't want dirt trekked in._

" _Let me stay!" Reilley begged shamelessly._

 _Rhys pointed him to one of the four beds; he'd set them two and two on either side to give a large space in the middle._

 _His younger brother cheered and threw himself on one._

" _This isn't right. It's-it's like HGTV threw up in here," Alba continued, eyeing the faux fur throws and wool rugs with disdain. "Dammit. This is why Arthur always let you tag along on his Avalon adventures."_

" _Yes," he answered candidly. "I taught him the importance of maintaining home and hearth. One's dwelling should be comfortable; it has a direct effect on one's health."_

 _Alistair shook his head again and left._

The memory angered him and he stood up, instructing Reilley to watch the water in his absence.

He entered his tent and scrutinized it once more. Every detail had been followed to his order. What was so wrong with "glamping"?

He thought the small tea light chandelier hanging from the center was very handsome; Albion liked it very much. He'd already complimented it twice.

And the stereo, along with the IPod list of soothing music he'd picked out, would help drown out some of the noise of the area. Their fellow campers were louder than he'd expected even after perusing the campgrounds' reviews.

It was a good thing he'd packed earplugs as a backup.

He glanced back up at the twinkling chandelier. He'd always been fond of how water could catch light and shine rainbows. Was it any surprise that he found crystals pleasing?

The iridescence calmed him and he was nearly ready to return to the campfire when his nerves suddenly spiked.

Arthur's aura was crackling with incredulity, outrage, and…fear.

"Absolutely not!" the Briton squawked. "It's spring. The trails will likely have changed from the rain and nightfall's nearly on us."

Rhys exited the tent.

"You could run into a bear or fall into the river or-"

When Arthur's ravings became louder and more desperate and "a tree could fall on you!" rang through the clearing, Rhys moved to stand beside him as he guessed the matter of contention.

"The answer is 'No,' chwb. No, you may not go out into the wilderness at this point. We'll scout the area in the morning and should you wish for a nighttime stroll, I am sure we can accommodate that."

"Did Mejico just let you go traipsing about whenever you felt like it?" Antonio asked, now that he could a word in.

Tex huffed before admitting, "No."

Spain sighed, "I know being a teenager inspires you to be bold. You get it from me. I know this."

Tex looked like he wanted to dispute that.

"-when I was under house arrest during the Moors' reign, they did not like vocal intonations and chanting—I sang anyway sometimes in the middle of the night and then, when I refused to pay jizya..." he released a low whistle. "This is different. This is holiday. You are not being oppressed. We are telling you, ' _This is not a good idea._ ' Not because we are fun-stomping troll people. We are familia."

"Yeah, Toni," Rico spoke around a mouthful of jerky he'd pilfered from Tex's hoard. "We are familia. It is our job to tell you when you are being estupido." He paused and leveled a look. "You are being estupido."

Spain's green eyes narrowed. "Not helping."

"Sorry, Papi."

"Go sit."

"Yes, Papi."

"Stop telling us what to do!" Tex burst out. "C'mon, Al. We're going to our FREEDOM tent! Where's there's-there's FREEEEEDOM and-and-and there's no Old World Powers or their minions allowed!"

* * *

Hawaii ducked into the tent holding a party pack of assorted Lay's potato chips in front of her as a peace offering.

Alfred reached for it only to have his hands slapped away.

"No, it's a trick!" Tex shouted dramatically.

She raised an eyebrow. "I'm not an Old World Power or a minion of them...soooo, pearl babies, I'm allowed inside. What the hell is going on here?"

"I don't want to tell you," Alfred mumbled, rubbing his hands and giving Tex a glare.

"I did not swat you that hard."

"I just…" America turned back to Hawaii. "I know you'll have feelings."

"..."

"Anyways...we kinda need to scout the area," the blond continued, not looking at her.

"In the morning," she replied.

"Just the two of us," Alfred gestured to himself and Tex.

She frowned and nodded slowly. So that's how they wanted to play, huh?

She could play hardball, too. "Babies, I'm gonna count to five. And then I'm calling Alaska for backup. 1..."

"It's a bluff, she ain't gonna-"

"2..."

"I dunno, bro. He'll be pissed-"

"Hold your ground, Al!"

"3…"

"-interrupt him right now. He'll be getting ready-"

"4…"

"-for his music festival-"

She sucked in a breath and gave a swift silent apology for the peaceful time she was going to interrupt for their fellow nation, "Fi-"

"Osha gave me a map as to where the magical gate I closed is! I gotta find it!" Alfred blurted in a rushed whisper. "No telling!"

Hawaii stilled and then hissed, "Alfred!"

"I didn't plan on everybody and their grandma coming. This was supposed to be a me and Tex trip-"

Tex nodded. "Yessir."

"Oh, so the rest of us were just s'posed to sit around with our thumbs up our asses? While two crazy kids take their chances with the occult in the middle of the woods!? Cuz that's gone so well for you both so far?!"

"..."

"Short answer: No. Long answer: Nooooooooo. I don't do the damsel bit. No towers for me and no waiting. Get me up to speed. Now."

Alfred was weighing his options. "You have to SWEAR on everything that matters that you'll keep it a secret."

This tended to be a precursor to all sorts of revelations from secret military strategies to movie spoilers.

"Fine." She held up her pinky.

Alfred nodded solemnly as they shook on it.

For the next thirty minutes she was enlightened via the use of a notepad and stick figures.

"And then Colonel Harris-" He tapped the one with massive sideburns. "-told me I needed to prove my patriotism. Which I guess means I needed to close the gate."

He pulled out a map that was heavily scotch-taped.

She checked the other side and felt her stomach flop.

It was on the back of all Osha'sletters to Alfred.

Osha...

So…

She was clearly a psycho.

It shouldn't have been that surprising. The fact that she kidnapped Alfred and forced his family perform a back alley surgery on him kinda proved that.

But then there was this.

Proof that she schemed out so much in advance.

It gave Momilani a prickly sense of goosebumps

She swallowed and tried to keep her voice level. "I don't trust her, baby."

"Tch. Neither do I. That's why I'm going, too," Tex grumbled.

"Why aren't we telling the rest of them?"

Alfred fiddled with the edges of his jacket sleeves. "Because they're already super stressed out. They need a relaxing vacation. Portal opening is high stress. I can feel it."

Momilani gave her toughest 'I'm-not-convinced' look of disapproval.

Alfred sighed. "They need time together to just relax. I mean, I can see them coming together. Ya know? Just enjoying being brothers. This will hurt that." Alfred played up his big baby blues. "And then there's the fact that...it deals with Osha...and I...I know Osha's done a lot of crappy things. And I am angry at her for it. But...I don't want Daddy to _**hate**_ her. And I feel like...this'll be the last straw."

Poor baby.

That ship sailed such a LONG time ago.

"And I gave my word to the UnSeelie King that I'd see the task through. It's on my honor to open it back up. And I...I gotta know where I stand in all this magic stuff. Am I a weakling in this field? Do I have to have Dad and the rest of them back me up on everything? All the time?!" Alfred frowned and his tone darkened. "I wasn't afraid before. For better or worse...look at all the stuff I accomplished. Am I so changed, I can't do that anymore? Can I stand on my own two feet?"

"Al…Al, I don't think...needing counsel on this is so terrible."

"I have to know! For me, Momi. I need to know. I need to face it by myself. I need you to promise."

With great reservations, she allowed herself to be factored into their scheme.

* * *

Alfred squeezed his eyes shut and tried to ignore the wind battering their tent.

He'd talked a big game with Hawaii earlier and this was his comeuppance.

C'mon, tough guy, buck up!

He whimpered as creepy night sounds and howling wind raged on. Tex was dead to the world and snoring so there was no comfort to be found there.

No night light was left on and it really sucked because he'd seen that Rhys had packed a water jug and a coil LED lamp. Together, they would've given off a soft glow.

His stuffed animals were clamped under his arms because he didn't dare let them spill onto Tex's side while his brother was in a mood. The effort was starting to make him sore and didn't help relax him into sleep.

And the worst part of all?

He needed to pee.

He was really tempted to not go to the ADA compliant restrooms but didn't know if it'd bite him in the morning if the others found out that he was too much of a scaredy-cat to venture further.

No.

He had to take a stand and quest for a urinal.

Because the hero was not afraid of a nighttime trek even if bathrooms totally were scary haunting hotspots…even if there was really unsettling mist on the ground. His family, with all the fog in their regions, would laugh at him.

He pulled his boots on and his coat on and stepped out.

The area was a cluster of dark shapes since there was no need for someone to be on watch and the campfire was out. The night was cloudy and starless and he felt less safe for it.

He didn't know how to explain it…but there was something bad in the ground. It stung his feet and it hurt to lie down in their tent so close to it. It was worse than being on a ship and walking on a bunch of long dead trees.

Nobody else seemed to feel it.

And that made him feel even weirder. How did Rhys not sense it?

Thinking about it made icy tendrils reach from his feet to his knees and climb higher.

He had to keep moving! There were still other campsites in full swing, so it had to be safe. Right?

He barely made it to the bathrooms. And once that urgency was gone, he knew the walk back would be even creepier.

How sad was it? That he hovered on the threshold, seriously considering texting somebody to come meet him?

The cracking of leaves and twigs kept making him jump and he found himself laying hands on bark and using the friendly, willing trees to help him walk in great winding trails that would make anyone following him lose their way.

It was just his imagination.

That's all it was, his imagination and several centuries of stored up horror stories and films, which apparently, was more than enough to send him straight into Rhys's tent and led him to stand rather pitifully next to Arthur's bedding.

He needed to go back to his tent. Back to Tex.

He turned around and stared through the gap of entrance he'd left open…at the long dark distance separating their tents and sniffled.

He needed to be brave and-

"Al?" Mathieu called softly. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," Damn. His voice cracked.

He needed to get out before—

"Arthur?" Mathieu alerted their old man before Alfred could take another step.

"Hm, wot? Oh! Sweetling!" Arthur's arms were immediately around him and pulling him onto the air mattress while lethargically commenting, "O, you're a poor little icicle."

He wasn't sure whether to curse or thank his Canadian brother. But he couldn't just give in to the welcome security set tantalizingly before him.

"I can't leave Texas!" he blurted. "Hop's still there too!"

"I understand."

Arthur got up and led Alfred by the hand. At the wall of the tent, he paused and delivered a brutal kick which resulted in Spanish cursing as he hit the occupant of the next tent over.

"Your son needs you," Arthur stated. "He's freezing to death."

"I told him that spot was too cold," Spain growled.

They listened to the sound of unzipping tent flaps and tromping footsteps.

"We'll get your things once he's through," Arthur explained.

"O-okay."

"It's alright, love. I'm glad you came to me. We'll set everything to rights."

It was embarrassing but…he reached his hands in a carry-me-please gesture. And it was such a relief for his feet to leave the ground.

Hours later, Alfred would admit that waking up comfy, in a fancy tent with a soft mattress and all three of his stuffed animals, was the life.

He reached for his father and found he was gone. The spot was still warm though. When that warmth started to leave, he reached for his boots and left for the outside—wincing as the ground betrayed him in ways it never had before.

"Nonono, Sweet! Stay in the tent!" Arthur demanded, authority ringing in his voice along with alarm. "Mathieu! Fetch your brother-"

It was too late.

He saw it.

There.

At the edge of their campsite was a roughly torn side of cardboard hanging from a bungee cord on a tree.

Painted on it in lurid red was:

 _Beware the Witch of the Wood!_

* * *

Read & Review Please! : D


	43. Chapter 43

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). 1985 Newry Mortar Attack in Northern Ireland. The Sack of Constantinople. In times of antiquity, "Doom" meant judgment like Danelaw's Book of Dooms (the title of which really struck my fancy when I was in a Medieval England class). A yoke is a mobile pillory; it keeps the head and hands restrained while making the prisoner bear the weight on his shoulders.

 **AN:** Thank you for your reviews and to the guest who alerted me and for the confetti. I'm stoked to be a representative of the Family General category! : D

In other RL news, yeah, I still haven't committed to a new internet plan so updates will continue being sporadic. Hope everyone's got fun Thanksgiving/Harvest plans in the works.

 **Chapter 43: A Frightful Shield**

* * *

Reilley had that queasy feeling that something wicked was underway. It reminded him of the Newry Mortar Attack. He'd been waiting to train some new recruits and sipping a cuppa when a curious silence seemed to befall him and his neck hairs stood on end.

It was the beat before something exploded.

That same feeling had a grip on him now.

It had been several hours since the discovery of the witch-sign and they still couldn't agree on what should be done.

"They're having us on," Alistair scoffed. "Lemme take it down."

Rhys blocked him to take yet another photo of it on his phone.

"We need to make a report." Arthur crossed his arms.

"It's just some teenage hijinks. Blair witch nonsense and the like," Alistair replied.

Reilley shifted uneasily at the drippy runny lettering of the sign.

 _Beware the Witch of the Wood..._

Saints preserve us, he twisted his fingers into his rosary. He had a bad feeling. Hopefully, a prayer to St. Christopher would help.

Alistair swatted the back of Reilley's head. "S' paint not goat's blood. Don't get yer knickers in a twist."

Reilley glared.

The sign was unsettling and consulting his rune stones only confirmed that something wasn't right. And it traced its way back to Alfred.

Alfred, who had spent that morning being carried in Arthur's arms, or riding on Tex's shoulders, or sitting in a chair, or resting on an air mattress, or reading on Rhys's lap.

Amazing, how his nephew hadn't said a word about the sign and yet his terror had been so palpable that they practically tripped over themselves to reassure him.

 _Reilley turned at the sound of small footsteps skidding to a stop._

" _-Mathieu! Fetch your brother." Arthur gestured his arms rather desperately. "Mathieu, take your brother back into the t-Oh, Alfred, it's alright-it's-"_

 _Alfred had gone stock still. His blue eyes were wide, fixated on the sign. Mathieu hesitated on lifting him, settling for rubbing his younger brother's shoulder and arm._

 _"Al...everything's going to be-"_

 _Arthur scooped Alfred up in one arm and wrapped the other around Mathieu._

 _Both boys were settled in Rhys's tent before Arthur returned to where the macabre sign dangled._

 _His green eyes were dark as he regarded it once more._

"Alfieboy?" Reilley looked up to the branch his nephew was currently perched on.

"Hmm?"

"Wha's wrong with the ground?" the Irishman asked.

The child stared.

His "Whaddyamean?" came a beat too late.

That got his brothers' attentions and they gathered under the tree.

"You sense something?"

"Malevolent?"

"In the land, on the land, or through it?"

"…"

When Alfred shrugged, they turned to each other and began theorizing in hushed voices.

Arthur looked worried. "Is it a ley line? Trade? Astronomical? Funerary?"

Alistair picked up some dirt to roll between his fingers and then sighed, "There's a slight whiff of evil, but you get that in all remnants. There's too much history for it to all be peaches and crème."

"What kind of evil?" Arthur insisted.

Alistair looked annoyed. "I-I don't know. Rhys? Yer...yer better at..." he lifted and dropped a shoulder "...than me."

Rhys took up a handful of dirt. He frowned and concentrated. "Seems human, but I wouldn't-"

" _Seems_?" Reilley stressed.

Alistair wiped his hands on his trousers. "It's old, whatever it is! Stop worryin' about it."

Rhys nodded reluctantly. "Sometimes murder-negativity lingers, you know that."

Ohhh, murder. Oh aye, let's just skirt over that little bit of loveliness.

His flat expression gave him away.

"I don't know what it is and I don't care," Alistair told him bluntly. "Now, stop it. It's way off. And you don't know that this," he indicated his handful of dirt. "And that-" he indicated the sign. "Are related."

"Well, it's bothering Alfie-boy," Reilley pointed out.

"Well, he's wee. They're more sensitive-"

Reilley raised a thick eyebrow. "He won't touch the ground if he don't have to."

They observed Alfred once more. The child was sitting and swinging his legs…and ignoring them.

"Sweet?" Arthur called. "Sweetling? Is that true? Is that the reason you're avoiding the ground? You sense something wrong with it?"

The child stilled.

"O Sweetling, it's alright, we'll just leave," Arthur declared.

The child jerked in alarm. "No! No…we've…got to…to celebrate Beltane's Day!"

"Love, don't be silly now. We can celebrate it anywhere. Preferably, a place where you're comfortable-"

"Tex and I wanted to river raft! Mattie too!"

"Darlingheart, we-"

"Noooo!"

"Alfred-"

"…no…please…"

Reilley watched Arthur struggle mightily with that.

If it had been screeched or whinged, Arthur would've batted it down easily. He was usually a fair hand at managing a misbehaving brat.

It was the softness in Alfred's plea that disarmed him. There was something fragile and a bit desperate in it.

Arthur's mouth twisted into a grim line.

* * *

Did dramatic irony always have to be a butt?

Here Alfred had a good lead that witches were still in existence and rather than being delighted that there were still magical practitioners in his land…he was totally spooked.

Still, catching wind about some mysterious deep wood witch sounded less like _Kiki's Delivery Service_ and more like Hansel and Gretel.

He just didn't want to get ate.

If his adventure last December proved anything, it was that hags were scary.

Kill-able...but scary...

And one could be waltzing around near them...

Still, if he'd been in her long, pointed shoes, why advertise?

Wouldn't it have served her purposes better to sneak about unnoticed?

Unless she was gangster-like (in the traditional 1930s sense) and wanted to intimidate them? Because they were also magic users and on her turf?

Something niggled at the back of his mind.

C'mon Salem memories help out!

Witches…

Witches…avoided confrontations when they could; there were certain things that could be done to lessen their power…so they depended on anonymity.

What things?

He racked his brain.

Things like…

Like?

He was getting frustrated at his lack of enlightenment and settled for focusing on the present.

He plucked at the stupid rafting helmet Arthur had insisted on buying him. Even without a mirror...he knew he looked like a dork in it.

But he couldn't make a big deal about it.

Not now.

After Alfred's insistence that a river rafting adventure was essential, Arthur got them set for one.

Alfred had never had his lifesaver vest checked so many times in his life. Every relative and even Spain had tugged on the straps at least twice. Arthur's final score was 26.

He stared over to where Alistair and Arthur were arguing as they dragged their raft over to the water. Reilley was following them from a safe distance with the oars.

"Allie! Ándale!" Tex snapped. "We ain't got all day."

He sighed and followed—eyes on his brother's boots.

Alfred's current Master Plan: _Engine Stall_ was at odds with England's Master Plan: _Everything and the Kitchen Sink._

If Arthur succeeded in checking off all of the boxes on Alfred's list of 'Why they couldn't possibly leave yet,' the American would have no way to dig his heels in.

Except maybe the truth...

And it was scary that the truth was cropping up as an option.

Because where was his sense of autonomy and secrecy?

Harris would be disappointed in his infantile desire to confide in his fatherland.

Alfred gasped and shook his head. Where the Hell had that come from?

He shivered.

"You ain't chickening out?" Tex demanded as he lifted Alfred and set him into their raft before climbing in himself.

Spain sighed, "Okay, so Papi gets to aweigh the anchor, huh? Rico, help me push."

Tex kept his eyes on his younger brother. "Al?"

Alfred swallowed nervously. Awww, shit.

His mouth was going dry. His hands were all clammy and everything was pressing in.

Stupid friggin' anxiety attack!

He started shivering harder because there was a glint of something in Tex's eye that promised trouble.

And a rafting adventure with an ornery Tex was gonna suck. He was going to find all kinds of opportunities to splash him with icy water.

It'd be easy to back out now, they were still on the shore of the Youghiogheny River.

NO!

He had to do it.

He stared around at his fellow rafters: Mattie, Momi, Spain, Rico.

He needed to man up.

He needed to calm down.

Dad would be following in the next raft.

It would be fine.

He stared down into the water as everyone got situated.

 _The roof of the gaol was leaking from the summer storm and his pitiful reflection stared up at him._

 _Treason…_

 _Insubordination…_

 _They were words that never should have been associated with him._

 _The stones under his bare feet were cold. The iron yoke they had fashioned for him was even colder._

' _Forged from the remnant of an anchor,' his guards liked telling each other that as they stood watch._

 _The damnable weight of it made it impossible to stand straight and the smell of brine made him heartsick._

 _Alfred licked his dry lips and tried to force strength into his hoarse voice. "My father will have your head for this."_

 _"Must we do this again? Let's not play pretend. America, you don't have a father. You never did. You. Are. A. Thing. Like a rock or a plant… A thing. You have no family."_

 _"England-"_

 _"Better. England. What of England?"_

 _"He'll thrash you for-"_

 _"He won't."_

 _Alfred went hot with rage. Maybe the young nation wasn't much of a foe, he was too inexperienced. But his father…_

 _His father was an admiral! A warrior! A sorcerer!_

 _"You. Are. A. Fool to disregard his wrath," he hissed._

 _"His wrath? You actually think you could rouse his sympathies? You?" Harris's teeth glinted in the torchlight outside Alfred's cell. "O America, he'd think you were right where you belong. Where all traitors belong."_

 _"...you're wrong."_

 _But he felt less certain than he had a moment ago. And the iron got heavier as his shoulders sagged._

 _And the man laughed._

 _It was strange to be defeated that way._

 _No forceful blow._

 _He'd always known words to have curious powers over man and nation._

 _But to be brought down by a sound..._

Alfred choked and his eyes stung.

He needed...

Needed...

"DAAADDDDY!" he screeched like he was being skinned alive.

"Ally, what the f-Oh no, we ARE going. We are definitely-"

"DAAAAAAAAAAAA-"

But Texas's efforts to launch them deep into the middle of the river were foiled when their raft lurched to a hard stop.

"-ddy," Alfred looked over his shoulder and his jaw dropped.

England was up to his chest in the water. One hand holding the root of a tree, the other...the raft.

Dude...

His dad was single handedly pulling their raft back against a strong current and heaving them closer to the shore.

Alfred scrambled over to the man.

"Al!"

He dodged Tex's swiping arm and ignored Mathieu's soft, "Are you okay?"

He climbed like a baby spider monkey out of the raft and onto Arthur's back.

Tex's face had "HELL NO" written all over it. "Don't you dare go welching you-"

Arthur gave the raft a good shove into the river as he announced, "Alfie and I are heading back to camp."

And that was that.

"S-sorry," Alfred mumbled once they were safe under the boughs of trees.

Arthur chuckled tiredly. "It's quite alright. You changed your mind."

"Y-yeah." _Yeaaaah, let's call it 'changing our mind' and not 'flipping a biscuit,'_ Alfred thought.

"Now, you DO wish to go back, not just to ride in the second raft? Correct?"

"I don't wanna raft right now." He tried not to feel like a coward.

"Alright. Then we're on the same page. I'm not much for rafting right now, either."

Almost.

They were almost on the same one. He sighed.

"If they try to give you trouble, I'll give them trouble," Arthur declared in a hard voice.

That inspired a wave of guilt.

Alfred wished he could do something, especially since the rescue effort had hurt Arthur; he was limping again.

He tried to lighten the load for his old man by saying he was feeling better so he could be set down.

But Arthur was determined to carry him into camp.

And he warned Alfred not to lie again.

The irregular squelching footsteps and all the affection they signified coaxed him into sharing the memory.

Arthur wanted the truth from him?

Fine.

He could spare a little.

For him.

Arthur paused and breathed heavily for a few minutes before he continued moving forward.

When he did speak again, his tone was low and gruff. "Harris… was **very** lucky to have escaped me."

Alfred climbed up to sit on Arthur's shoulders. "You'd have humiliated him in front of the whole garrison." Arthur had always been a pro with his cutlass. "Disarmed him like an amateur."

Arthur laughed hollowly as he steadied Alfred by the legs. "Like my wrath would've been so easily satisfied with such a display."

"Yes, you probably would've killed him," he reasoned aloud.

Arthur's silence was a confirmation.

And their bond whispered that it would've been gruesomely done.

It wasn't as distressing a thought as it should've been; that his father would kill for him.

He knew that already.

To keep him…the Battle of Camden was testament to how far he'd go.

To protect him…A German that got the drop on Alfred in the trenches, got a bayonet through the face.

To support him…They'd been war allies in more campaigns than…well…than he could even accurately recall...

Daddy adored him. He'd never allow anyone to treat him so miserably.

Not even an American…

Harris…

He'd have slashed Harris to pieces.

Like Grym…

Like he'd been prepared to do to the UnSeelie king…

He thought of the dripping bag that had been in Alistair's hand. The one that shouldn't have been a surprise because—

" _My father will have your head for this."_

And he would gladly display it on London Bridge with other degenerates. The way he used to when Alfred was small. He remembered peeking through the shutters of the carriage for a glimpse when they-

No…that was bad…Harris was an American…someone America was duty-bound to protect even if…even if…deep down...

Even if…

He rested his cheek on the top of father's head. A dark feeling that was hard to decipher passed between them.

Arthur patted his left leg gently and that made it a little easier to accept.

Yes…

He'd almost call it a smug satisfaction.

It made him feel oddly safe.

Yes, Harris was wrong.

Father's wrath was a terrible thing.

A frightful shield…

And only the adored, like himself, could shelter under it without fear.

* * *

Arthur helped Alfred remove and store his safety vest, helmet, and wet suit.

He was pleased that the child hadn't voiced any discontent over the equipment (in putting it on or taking it off). Perhaps he was finally seeing the light, so to say? That such things were meant to safeguard him? What was fashion in comparison to safety?

Arthur would never willingly risk him if he could help it. He'd gladly weather taunts over him being a "worrywart" and "mother hen" and "wet blanket," as he had earlier while prepping their raft.

 _It was difficult; keeping up with conversation while also keeping Alfred in sight._

 _The child had the most terrible habit of wandering._

 _He'd circle a tree thrice, flit about, fall behind, and sprint ahead…_

 _He'd already scolded the child twice and earned a glare from Scotland and Texas._

 _Yes, he knew he was being overprotective. But they'd received a threat that morning!_

 _And even if they hadn't…this river had a dangerous undertow! Yes, they weren't rafting near it but…but…water demanded respect!_

 _Alfred's ice incident should've driven that home, but his son was flippant when Arthur tried to explain how unforgiving water could be._

 _The boy had countered with, "Trees demand respect too, and that's why they claim skiers. You don't play chicken with a tree. They don't bluff."_

 _He'd skipped off before Arthur could deliver the soft swat to the rear the child deserved for such a speech._

" _Give me a night. Two. Gimme two," the Scotsman held up two large square fingers. "I'll get to the bottom of it."_

 _Arthur adjusted his hold on the raft. "No, it would be easier if we just left for the time present. The four of us can return at a later date to resolve whatever the witch-problem is-"_

" _We don't even know if there's one here and I hate that term, 'witch.' Ack, a 'witch' doesn't even necessarily mean a magic user, let alone a dark one. You remember the burnings."_

 _Yes…yes, Arthur did._

" _Plenty went up which weren't witches even in the loosest sense of magic wielder. A 'witch' is just anyone yeh don't like, usually one who's odd and got no connections, and yeh'd like to see 'em gone."_

"… _I can't take any chances. What if it's a hag? The UnSeelies of our isle are fond of Alfred and they're still dangerous. Still malevolent, still harmful to him. Their king plucked his bloody eye and still considers himself his number one fan!? How can we be certain that ones here, like this 'witch of the wood,' won't be worse? Is it native to the soil? Is it one of ours come through the gate years ago? If it is one of ours, it hasn't had contact with the Courts in centuries. You know damn well how unruly a human colonist can get after years with laissez faire governance. I shudder to think what a fae-"_

" _Fine," Alistair set his end down in the water. "Say there is a witch. Pre-1812."_

" _1814," Arthur corrected. "That's when Alfred closed the gate."_

" _What then? You gonna send me off after her with your blessing? Me and Reilley, maybe? Why put off what I can just do now?"_

"…" _It was going to be a long raft ride._

" _There was a time you'd be leading the charge with me. For curiosity, for dominion, for sport, for spite-"_

" _I won't leave the children unguarded."_

" _Yer afraid," Alistair sneered. "That's what bound that bodach to yeh. Yer freezin' up. Yeh gotta buck-"_

 _Arthur stumbled to a stop and water lapped at his legs. "Afraid? O, I'm not afraid. I'm fucking terrified. Too much has happened this past year for me to-"_

" _DAAAAAAAAAADDY!"_

 _He was moving._

 _He was moving without any clear thought—pure paternal instinct and fear drove him to his child. He wouldn't lose him! He wouldn't lose him! He wouldn't-_

Alfred smiled sweetly up at him. His fair hair shone in the sun, the apples of his cheeks were rosy, and his eyes were bright and blue.

He was always all the colors of a clear, spring day.

Precious thing…

Arthur picked him up once more. The child nuzzled his face into Arthur's neck and it took a lot not to hold him too tightly.

He wouldn't lose him.

He aimed a kiss at the child's temple.

He wouldn't let anyone or thing harm him.

His little one grinned and giggled at the stubble that brushed against him. In the chaos of the morning, Arthur had forgotten to shave.

Since their talk in the woods, Alfred had been quite partial to him. He kept close. He was affectionate. Almost obedient.

Perhaps it was a little concerning that bloodshed was the topic that prompted the tenderness but…

Alfred remembered Arthur being his protector.

No, it was more than that.

Arthur could sense it.

It was a reality that was being embraced once more.

Arthur _was_ his protector. Naturally, it would always be so.

But the child _knew_ it again.

Arthur was being leaned into with a confidence, a certainty that no harm would follow.

A warmth not unlike sunshine radiated through their bond. His child's presence felt lighter…younger…more transparent; old worries and sorrows were melting free from him.

He wished he was better with aura-reading. Rhys would've been able to tell more.

His eldest brother was only mildly surprised to find they'd returned early.

" _Common sense prevailed?"_ he'd asked dryly as he joined them in the clearing with a basketful of newly gathered kindling _. "It's far too cold for…"_

He had then realized Arthur was soaked to the skin and made a great fuss over it.

Arthur belatedly realized that carrying Alfred had gotten the child damp as well.

Thankfully, a change of clothes for them both and Alfred's shy explanation over what had transpired put out Rhys's ire.

The Welshman put together a light lunch (for what supplies they'd brought had largely gone into the rafters' iceboxes) and the three retired to the tent for the afternoon.

Arthur and Rhys sat down on the ends of an air mattress and passed Arthur's copy of _Sir Gawain_ between them.

Alfred seemed beyond delighted to stretch out between them as his favorite story was read out. And it was good to put the child's mind at ease after such an upsetting memory.

There'd been something strangely familiar about the setting and the sight of that yoke had infuriated the Englishman.

Part of an anchor…

It was needlessly cruel, crueler than even Alfred knew.

Due to a convenient puddle, Alfred had read Loden stamped across the fragment.

He hadn't known what it meant though.

Arthur did.

England enjoyed personalizing the anchors of ships he was fond of or served on with their vessel's name.

That anchor had belonged to the _HMS Culloden_ , the ship was a loss. It ran aground during the American Revolution.

While he'd never met Harris, he knew the man's type. It was no coincidence.

And it burned that something of his was used against America in such a way.

They were in the midst of the third chapter, Arthur was giving Alfred's feet a massage and Rhys was reading with more vigor than usual, when Alfred asked abruptly, "Could I have been a knight?"

Arthur stared numbly at the soft pink toes in his hold.

"No," Rhys answered.

Arthur choked.

No…

Alfred was terrible at taking orders; particularly, ones he didn't like or ones from superiors he wasn't fond of. It wouldn't be a stretch to say he was fundamentally insubordinate because he took a certain perverse joy from defiance.

But there had to be a kinder way to-

"…oh…" his child mumbled. Alfred worked hard to suppress his grief but a rush of great pain and disappointment leaked through.

Arthur clasped the small feet in his hands and searched for something to say; something that would be encouraging but honest.

That Alfred didn't need to be a knight any more than he needed to be a sailor to have Arthur's love and approval. "Alfie-"

Rhys set the book down. "I thought you wished to be a hero?"

Arthur frowned. What was he getting at? Alfred was very attached to fairy tale figures…and…well…Arthur. It was easy to see where his admiration of knighthood came from. It had to be handled delicately.

Rhys shrugged, "I knew plenty of knights. From all over our lands." He gestured around to mean his brothers' territories included. "I couldn't boast a handful that were real heroes."

Arthur got rather indignant at that but when he stood up his leg buckled so he swiftly sat back down.

Alfred stared anxiously after him, his face so genuinely distressed that Arthur immediately reached over to pat his shoulder.

"O, don't fret. It happened a long time ago-"

"Crusades," the boy replied.

"Yes."

"…what happened?"

"Now, love, I've already told you time and again, it was-"

"Yeah, but you were lying."

That caught both Arthur and his brother off-guard.

Alfred sat up and tucked his knees under his chin. "I never had anything not heal right for so long, except my eye. And that was magical. And even that just took a few years. This has lasted centuries. What happened? Who'd you tick off? What contract did you break?"

Arthur's mouth set into a grim line. "Misusing a magical artifact can earn you quite a nasty backlash."

"So, it is magic then." His young face hardened with that severe expression he got whenever he felt something unjust was at work.

Arthur felt old and sad, but he smiled, "Do calm down, sweet. It was earned."

Arthur hadn't planned on continuing with any more than that, but Alfred wouldn't let it go…and bit by bit the cause of his injury came out.

* * *

Arthur sighed. The last hour had felt like an eternity.

Rhys shifted uncomfortably in his seat by the fire as he stirred a less than hearty soup for supper. He complained again about how they hadn't picked up the necessary food supplies.

"I didn't expect us to still be here," Arthur responded plainly.

His child was being curiously inflexible and Arthur had an idea of why: fraternal loyalty. If he was right, Arthur would need to appeal to Texas to end the trip.

"You…you showed courage earlier…disclosing the…disastrous Constantinople."

"…" He stared. Rhys wasn't one to hand out compliments.

"While I too criticize your judgment at times, your bravery is-"

"And here I thought you always called it 'reckless arrogance' before?"

He could recall all too easily the numerous times his eldest brother had derided him for taking on quests and missions and going headlong into danger…often on the frontlines.

"I'm certain that it is precisely that quality which aids it," Rhys noted as his eyebrow twitched.

Arthur laughed softly and agreed, "It does indeed."

Rhys looked away and then back—surprising him by making direct eye contact rather than staring breezily about him. "It was a bad moment. A…a plague on us all if…we're to be judged only on our…worst moments…"

Arthur closed his eyes and nodded solemnly.

"But you're wiser for it, are you not?"

Arthur opened his eyes and nodded again. God, he missed the might of that blade though. And to be free of the weight of dishonor that accompanied its loss…

"It was never your courage that failed," Rhys offered.

"No, it was my mercy and decency-"

"No."

"…"

"It was your temper."

Arthur slumped and he stared at his feet. He sighed, "…always."

"Hotheaded. You and Alistair. That's why you two were constantly at one another's throat at the slightest provocation-"

"At least we had it out," Arthur grumbled as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "We weren't like you and Reilley. I've read up more. 'Grief collectors' is what they call it. Grudge-holders. It's damn inconvenient, having you store up your ill will and dole out punishments whenever you fancy. At the drop of a hat, I can receive the comeuppance for something I'd done decades earlier rather than a beat after. Which is discombobulating to say the least for I'll think something is water under the bridge and suddenly-"

"I'll work on that."

That left him flummoxed.

Rhys laced his fingers. "It seems only fair that I...when you…you…you have been working on your restraint…your anger."

"Yes, 'anger management.'" He needed to check in with his counselor that night.

"…the difference is noticeable. I still hold with the other advice I gave you, but I daresay you'll be in a better position to argue why you're the most fit for guardianship."

"…"

Damnation, he was getting choked up.

"There will likely be some obstacles in the form of-"

Movement caught his eye.

"Mind _that_ gap," Arthur leaned his head to indicate the bottom of the tent.

"What?"

"Look lower," Arthur ordered.

Rhys straightened. Sure enough, Alfred was peeking from the bottom.

"A change in topic, if you would be s-so kind? I'm...I'm not ready yet…"

Hazel eyes looked at him a little sharply.

It wasn't that he wanted secrecy.

He didn't.

The sooner he could tell Alfred the better.

He just didn't want to spring it on the boy.

No…

It was just…

"Need…r-right words…right timing…to-to…"

Rhys nodded.

He needed time to think it all through. How to best communicate the arrangement he wanted for Alfred.

For Alfred's sake.

Rhys rested a hand on Arthur's shoulder in support.

And it surprised him how much he needed it.

He held the hand there for a moment and got a squeeze before they both released each other a breath later.

Damn…

The sack of Constantinople…

It always put him off balance.

He'd never wanted to share such a tale, but he was never very good at denying his son anything.

He'd half-expected his child to besiege him with angry questions of why Arthur hadn't bothered to do this or that.

And while it would've embarrassed him, he'd have told Alfred about a fifteen-year-old who loved power, glory, swords, beer, pleasure, hunting, and horses. And in that order.

That teen could barely read and just enough to look over tithes and read dirty jokes etched onto walls.

That teen didn't know what latitude was or how illnesses spread. Didn't care about smelting processes as long as he was provided with what he wanted and was given the guarantee that it was the best out of his legion. Because he was the highest ranked of them and therefore deserving.

For years, almost from the moment he'd named his child, Arthur had tried to fortify himself. He'd known that the moment would come. That he would eventually have to confess and weather the scorn that it took him centuries to realize why King Alfred was Great and not just some strange scholar-type that liked nagging him to improve his mind with stupid lessons.

Reading and writing were monkish pastimes unbefitting of a warrior like him. It was a bore to visit places like Lindisfarne.

That king would've loved Roanoke, who'd barely left the womb of the Earth and knew instinctively as he etched a triumphant 'A' into sand and dirt that knowledge was power.

That child was hungry with curiosity. He starved for knowledge. Arthur had never been like that at his same age. He'd learned as he'd needed to; often as the result of direct experience or at the consequence of ignorance.

Alfred was the only suiting name he could give.

As Arthur explained the necessary background information for what led up to his injury, he waited nervously for an onslaught of questions.

Why wasn't he smarter then? More strategic? Why hadn't he seen the bigger picture? How his actions would affect the future? How it would affect Alfred's? Or the hypocrisy of his father's lectures about caution when his own stupidity cost them such a weapon?

How one thrust from Ex Caliber could've dispatched Grym?

How could Arthur lose something so valuable? Something that could've protected his little ones for millennia?

Why was war in the 1200s so goddamn different than battle in the 1700s and onward…

He knew Alfred wasn't a stranger to sights of brutality…

But brutality itself was never the norm for the child.

He was born to a later age; one that embraced civilization and reason; an age where brutality was a means to an end rather than a primal release.

Alfred simply sat there, without begging a single question, and heard the story with nary a passing emotion of condemnation or compassion.

He nodded after it was done and thanked him for his explanation before walking away.

1204.

The Fourth Crusade.

It was a disastrous endeavor rife with under table dealing, unscrupulous power plays, land seizures, and promised titles.

Matters only worsened once they landed in Byzantium. The Greeks were antagonistic to their fellow Latin inhabitants and downright hostile to the Crusaders...and the Crusaders were still livid over the Massacre of the Latins in 1182.

And then the empire of the Byzantines itself was unstable with constant changes in rulers and policy (sometimes admittedly the result of Crusader interference).

When Emperor Alexios V ordered Alexios IV's execution...

Conquest seemed the best course of action.

England rallied his troops along with others…

They were easy to rally...they were hard to control.

He remembered France's angry cursing as his men grew unruly and lascivious.

He remembered watching Hungary's ponytail as she raced headlong into a riot.

He remembered the outrage, the tension, the deep thrum of male voices thousands strong because wars were won with bodies.

He remembered the crackling energy that arose whenever too much testosterone was gathered in any one place.

Prussia's laughter and his own mingled as the teenagers goaded one another into more and more reckless charges.

He'd moved too strongly on self-righteous fury and zealous instinct.

Ex caliber was a sword of battle.

A kingmaker.

Duel-winner.

Smiter of evil.

It was never meant to be used on innocents and the moment it cleaved through the bones of a noncombatant…the blade rebounded hard and caught its wielder in the legs.

He and his victim shared a pool of blood.

On his return to their isle, Rhys had taken him to the Lady of the Water, concerned over Arthur's still festering wounds.

Deep as they'd been, a nation should've healed from them in weeks.

 _It had been half a year and Arthur had seen little to no improvement._

 _He needed answers! Guidance!_

 _The Lady of the Water looked on him dispassionately. "There is no force of might or intricate incantation…No tool of man or mage what can remove this…affliction."_

 _His fury heightened._

 _Yes, he'd made a mistake._

 _A terrible one but…how was he to protect his lands?_

 _He glowered at her. How was he to combat Morgana's forces without his, by now, legendary blade? He had the terrible suspicion that only it, combined with his wand, would have strength enough to subdue her for all time._

 _She'd grown monstrously powerful from the time he'd first gathered knights to the year he'd created his Round Table._

" _Tell me what I must do. How can I heal myself and regain my sword's loy-"_

" _There are no means at your disposal that can relieve you of this well-earned injury. You betrayed your instrument of power."_

" _No! They betrayed us first-"_

" _Reason all you like. It will not break that doom."_

"… _is there no hope for me then…to reclaim my strength?"_

 _She looked thoughtful for a moment, the light glistening off and through her form. But she was always a rather pessimistic entity. "You will never again be what you were."_

He'd had arrows through the chest less painful than that admission.

Remembering it laced him with shame each time.

And now he'd passed the tale on, opening himself to further chastisement. It could easily be thrown in his face in future arguments.

And the possibility gave him some dread because his son knew how to twist a dagger and this was a sword. The most sacred sword Arthur had ever possessed.

Alfred must've known the weight of what he'd learned...his silence was heavy.

He'd gone off to play his violin.

And Arthur sighed as haunting melodies filled the air.

His son either knew the clout of the information he now had at his disposal and was brooding over how best to use it in future rows.

Or…

He was disappointed in his father.

Strange, how that was almost worse.

* * *

Read & Review Please! : D


	44. Chapter 44

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia, or Tennesse Williams' _A Streetcar Named Desire_ , or Shakespeare's line from Hamlet: "To thine ownself be true…" Or Clue the game and its many amusing lethal weapons. Or Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland characters.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, linguistically, and grammatically). Writer Tyranny which has resulted in a word of my making: naggy. Adj. having characteristics of a nag (a person who pesters and scolds). 6 Degrees to Kevin Bacon game. Familial drama, fluff, hostility, etc.

 **AN:** Thank you for your reviews! I've really appreciated them while I've been trying to balance work, writing, and very unenthusiastic studying for the GRE. The fam and I continue debating over internet providers because both of our options are terrible, sooo I'm still a wifi café seeker…which has slowed my updates down immensely as I do try to double-check my facts when necessary. However, considering we're going into the endgame of this story, the delay just means you get to savor the final chapters, right? Yup, I think there's just a handful left. It's been a fun fic to write and I hope you've enjoyed reading it thus far. Happy Reading! : D

 **Chapter 44:** **Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumbass**

* * *

Mathieu felt numb as he watched Arthur carry Alfred to safety.

Had it been the water? A memory?

Merde. Nobody really knew the full extent of his brother's experience with Osha. Given their recent slew of troubles he never felt "in" enough with Alfred to outright ask.

He really hoped it wasn't rafting in general.

He'd feel awful if he'd taken his brother on countless trips that the latter hadn't enjoyed at all.

He contemplated following, but given Alfred's current lukewarm reception of him, he might do more harm than good.

He'd wait a little bit, give Arthur time to settle Alfred down, and then text them both to make sure they were both alright. From the look of their departing figures, Arthur's ankle was acting up again.

"What. The. Fuck?!" Tex hissed. "The Hell does he think he's doing?! I should drag his ass back here."

Texas ignored their protests and stood up on the raft. His brown eyes glared at the shore where Alfred and Arthur had disappeared.

"ALFRED!?" The brim of his hat dipped and then he looked up and screeched, "Who's the deserter NOW!? ALFREEEED!"

Terrible.

It was très mal…

…that Mathieu was seriously thinking about pushing him into the river.

Temperature be damned.

Tex was standing.

An oar was in Mathieu's hands…

It could very easily be done.

Rico had already made eye contact with him, looking from the oar to Mathieu to Tex. He nodded his blessing.

The Canadian employed great self-restraint and resisted. Barely.

Mathieu's attempts to point out that Alfred's breathing indicated he'd been having a panic attack did little to assuage Tex's feelings on the matter.

"He was distressed," Mathieu spelled out as his own temper began to flare.

If anything his Southwestern brother seemed angrier at hearing that.

"Well, he should've said so to ME. Better me than that prissy, stuck up, stuffed shirt, scone eating, horse-toothed, snobby, bossy, BBC-watching-"

From the energy in his voice, the tirade could've lasted days but Spain intervened.

He grabbed Texas rather easily and forced the younger man to sit back down.

In a rather arctic tone, he stated that there was absolutely NOTHING wrong with Alfred wanting his Papi.

His expression dared Tex to argue otherwise.

The beautiful scenery, foliage of all shades of awakening spring-time green, was difficult to enjoy as Texas full-out sulked in tense silence.

"This is why nobody likes him," Puerto Rico announced candidly.

"Rico," Spain warned.

"Notice that NOBODY offered to throw a fiesta on his behalf. In our family…" He nudged Canada with his elbow. " _ **Any**_ reason is a good reason to have a fiesta. We did NOT have one for Lazarus over there."

Tex glared.

"I will host a fiesta for you, Toni," Spain assured. "Everybody will be there."

'Spanish Fam-ada' echoed in the silence.

Dieu, it sounded like a threat.

He half-expected to be forced to attend it as well.

Rico swallowed audibly.

"Tch." Tex crossed his arms. "Save the funding, why the hell would I show up to a place where I hate everyone-"

"That is very hurtful, mijo."

"-and everyone hates me."

"I will _never_ hate you, Tonito."

Later on when they broke for lunch and hitched their two rafts together, Tex was the first to indulge in the ice chests for liquor.

He drank hard enough that Reilley clucked his tongue, "Thought we were all going to partake in Arthur's share."

Texas gave him a sullen look.

Mathieu looked over at Alistair who was obviously weighing on whether to comment or intervene.

"We got training later," the Scotsman said finally. "It's happening. Whether you're sober or sloshed."

"Fine."

Spain caught Tex's wrist when the latter reached for another bottle. "I think you've had enough. Now, put your vest back on."

"Hey! You…you drank like the fishes. Like, if it had been the ocean it'd be lower…cuz…cuz you drank so much. You threw them back. Hard. Mucho-"

"I am aware I had a problem then, mijo. I am trying to make sure you don't make the same mistakes I did."

"Back in the Ol' West, Allie and I drank more than this 'fore noon-"

"It is not the Wild West. And proofs are much stronger. Put your vest on."

"Tch. You think you can just boss me around. You ain't mi jefe anymore. No sirreebob. You ain't. Tu no es mi jefe-"

"You will put your vest on. Or Papi will help you."

Mathieu cringed at the tone.

"…FINE! So stupid. Pansy-ass vest." He then grumbled something softly in Spanish that made Spain lurch forward challenging. "Okay, okay, I am doing it. I just…I didn't wear no vest when I floated wagons down…estúpido…ruining my life…again."

Mathieu took care not to comment when it became clear that Texas did require Antonio's help to get said life preserver back on. Mathieu also gave Rico a light kick to the shin when the man's snickering got too loud.

* * *

Watching Tex and Alistair spar got Alfred all keyed up; he felt adrenaline pumping through him.

He wanted training. Real training. He was tired of classroom styled, paper pusher, low-energy lessons.

He wanted to get closer, but each time he moved it only resulted in Rhys or Reilley grabbing him on Arthur's behalf and plonking him back down on his fold out chair.

His dad was trying to stay off his rolled ankle.

The Englishman finished wrapping an ace bandage around the appendage. He pinned it in place as he scolded, "Alfie, you don't want to get underfoot. Alistair _**never**_ treads lightly."

Alistair flipped Tex and the younger man had to somersault to roll back into a standing position.

"…" he wanted to do _that_ stuff!

"Reilley, bring him to me."

Alfred's cheeks puffed as he was delivered like a package.

"Here you are, yer worship," Reilley quipped.

Arthur gave a terse, "Thank you, Reilley."

"Daaaaad," Alfred whined.

"Oh hush, love." Arthur's arms encircled him. "You'll learn all of that soon enough. Sit here with me a while, won't you?"

That sent a painful ping through him.

Arthur was still sad. Their talk had worn him out.

Maybe Alfred shouldn't have pressed him for that info but…he'd just needed to know.

He cuddled into the embrace.

He couldn't remember Arthur ever looking as conflicted as he did while talking about Constantinople. It was obvious that there was more he could've said.

But Alfred didn't need more. The Briton had said enough; he'd made a terrible mistake, he owned up to it, he was remorseful, he learned from it, and he didn't repeat it.

It wasn't fair that it got to linger.

He reached out stealthily with his magic—imagining each tendril like a vine…no…like a root…tiny and fragile as a hair but tenacious.

Now that he knew what a hex was and having lived under one for some time…

It was easier to sense.

It wasn't a tangle like his had been, wadded up and subtle…in his eye…where he literally could not see it because he was…er…seeing out of it? Through it?

Anyways…

It wasn't hidden.

This one…

It was almost like a fault line, though it was totally straight.

Along the ankle, up through the shin, across to the adjacent leg hugging under the knee…

A trace of magic that wasn't Arthur's…hailing from a time some-

"380 years before I was born," he calculated aloud.

Arthur sucked in a breath. "…Yes."

"-Like, I wasn't even an idea yet." That made him frown. Made him feel small. Insignificant.

He hated feeling that way.

It was always England who could make him feel-

"Alfie-boy, are you trying to make that Crusade about you?" Reilley inquired with a smile, having been held aside by Rhys earlier to explain why Arthur was "off" (finger quotations had been used and everything).

"I want to, but I can't. That makes it kinda frustrating. I can usually swing the Six Degrees to Bacon thing."

The adults chuckled.

Still, Arthur soon sighed and stared off into the distance.

Alfred squirmed to recapture his attention. "So, you got benched for a bit."

Arthur looked down at him and raised a bushy eyebrow.

"Is that when you started appreciating plays?" Alfred asked, genuinely interested.

Arthur blinked and looked thoughtful. "Perhaps."

Time to get mushy. Nothing could knock his old man out of a funk like playing up things they had in common.

"Plays, stories, poetry…I liked that stuff. I liked when you brought all that to me. You read things differently."

"Hmm?"

"I heard lots of sermons from the settlers and folktales from tribes. But you had a way of speaking and reading that was different. I liked it best."

He was shamelessly sucking up; it helped when what he was saying was the truth.

Arthur tapped Alfred's nose and smiled. "Oh?"

It was working.

And yet…it made him feel a little abashed; to know what Arthur's strings were and to manipulate them so easily…

He went against instinct and peppered more truth into the mix.

"Yeah…I dunno. You weren't somber then." He wasn't boring and naggy then. No, an air of excitement and triumph had clung to the swashbuckler and even when things were bad, he'd always seem more annoyed that matters weren't going in his favor than that he was genuinely afraid of what might happen.

"But I am now?" Arthur frowned.

"…sometimes," he answered honestly. "But you weren't then. You were happy to be here and you were happy to be with me."

He could always tell. A light would enter his eyes as he stood on the threshold of their humble cabin—like the gleam of sunshine on still waters.

That had been the hardest thing to lose.

After their first war, he'd assured himself it was just a phase. He'd regain it soon enough. Only he didn't.

Even now…

Even now when he was finally glad to see him again…there were always a thousand other thoughts and worries weighing him down and darkening him.

He focused his eyes back on his brother's lesson.

"Always" was whispered into his ear. "I'm _**always**_ happy to be with you."

And it was interesting how grave that vow was and how carefully…no, tenderly…he was hugged following it.

His father had lost that boyish zeal he'd had in the 1600s. And Excalibur wasn't to blame. Alfred didn't know how to say that without it sounding hurtful though.

That fervor was the quality that had made him seem nigh invincible to a young colony.

Not that this was bad.

Not that either was bad.

His colonizer had always cared greatly for him. But in their early days he'd been awfully strong and hotheaded. Even in his fondest turns of mood, he was often harsh, demanding, and brutal.

His love was fierce…all of him was.

It made his feelings unquestionable. When Father said 'I love you,' he meant it.

It was when England started growing more mannered and refined…

When he started acting different…cold…reserved…that all manner of doubt began to creep in…

When who he was in public and private didn't feel quite the same…

Alfred rested a hand on his father's chest and fiddled with the buttons and snaps of the jacket.

Deep down it was the same heart that loved him from the beginning, but it was infinitely gentler now.

Other colonies had loved it, filled it, shaped it, softened it, and smoothed out its sharpest edges.

It was a good thing…

He knew that.

He just wished it didn't leave him with such a melancholic feeling of loss.

"Is the knife not givin' yeh warnings?" Alistair barked as he circled the younger man.

Tex ran a hand through frizzy curls. "Uhh, it um…gets cold and hot? And weird?"

"And yeh didn't bother trying to figure out what that all meant!?"

"I go with my gut," he shrugged. "And what I know from brawls."

Alistair inhaled and exhaled and then advised, "You got horse-sense, right?"

Tex perked up.

He did in spades.

Alfred had always considered himself an animal person, but Tex was just…better with horses.

"It's kinda like that. The knife will…er-"

"Spook?" Tex's eyes were big.

Alistair blew out a breath and gave a lackluster, "Aye…sure."

Tex looked at it in a new light.

"I don't understand why he's not helping with his form?" Spain muttered as he shuffled forward. He looked tired and irritated.

"That's not what's being trained," Reilley replied.

"Qué?"

Rico was carrying a box of graham crackers and a bag of marshmallows. "Damn it, Papi. You didn't get it?"

"Get what, mijo?"

"They're training him up for the Bruja Brigade!"

"…?"

Rico rolled his eyes and then continued, "You know how all of them are into the occult? Well, Al's getting into it, so Tex is too. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumbass."

Antonio's olive complexion turned a ghastly white and he crossed himself. "This is _witchcraft_?! You are teaching _my_ son-"

"Yup," Tex answered candidly, wiping sweat from his face with a small towel. "Does it bring back Pagan Iberian memories for ya?"

He soon left for a shower with a worried Spain on his heels. For a long time they heard scripture recited in a loud, terrified, rapid fire mix of English and Spanish.

Alistair looked amused.

"Weapon lesson for me next?" Alfred asked hopefully.

"Er…" his uncle squinted.

Alfred turned around to see Arthur and Rhys both shaking their heads "No."

"HEY!"

"Sorry, runt," Alistair stretched. "Your brother's got a lot of raw strength. I need to recover." He sat down on his fold out chair and rubbed at a bruise on his forearm.

"You always renege whenever I want a sword lesson," he pouted.

Arthur surprised him by flinching.

Maybe it was because he'd sought the skill out from Alistair?

"Unless maybe?"

It would be the coolest, most super, father-son bonding experience of his life if—

He looked up and saw a rejection deeper than 'NEVER' in his father land's face.

Which really wasn't fair.

Yeah, they'd talked about Excalibur and all the dooms involved. And his dad was kinda injured for life…

But…

If anything it should've flattered Arthur that he had a son interested in the art.

It still kinda threw him for a loop.

It made sense of course.

Now…

Why Arthur was such a hardcore Arthurian Legend fan.

He wasn't AN Arthur.

He was _**THE**_ Arthur.

Which was totally badass and…kinda explained the whole King thing with the UnSeelies.

Caydern…

They were wrong of course to assume Alfred was a prince.

Brenhin.

Tch. He wasn't. Arthur had never treated him like royalty, except maybe as a royal pain in the ass. Sooo that memo never got out.

And apparently, he wasn't even bonafide enough to snag a knight spot.

Which…sucked.

Like, fine, he could understand the Mordred vibe he gave off with the whole Revolutionary War bit, and how that could be construed as disloyalty…

But what about Black Knight-ness?

Knight-errants without lords? Well? That should still be a viable option for him. He just…needed to get good at swordsmanship, and archery, and jousting, and mace-wielding, and trebuchets.

Hey, he could ride a horse. That box could be checked off!

Swordsmanship had to be in his blood somewhere. A-a birthright of sorts! Arthur could probably wake it up somehow.

"You coul-"

"I don't train-"

Alfred could almost hear 'traitors' at the end of the sentence. Damnation…Harris, dead but still in his head.

His father hadn't said that. He forced himself onward.

"Yes, you do. Mattie, Jet, Jake…everybody and their grandma. They all carried swords in the World Wars, I saw them. I saw…"

Arthur heaved a sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I didn't personally instruct…I just improved their form."

"Kay! Then correct me." He slid down and took up a stick. "I know some rudimentary stuff."

That was a grand exaggeration.

He'd gotten a handful of basic drills over the centuries. They'd usually discover his talent with guns and the other skills were left at the wayside.

Why waste time instructing him in "arts of antiquity" when they could send him to the frontlines with a rifle and stop losing so many men?

He performed a few ceremonial gestures he did at award events and some stage fighting moves from theatre.

He wanted to be good with a sword.

So bad.

Had always wanted to be.

He made a few true blue stances he'd learned from Prussia.

Prussia who'd told him outright to stick with a musket and bayonet.

A parry. A strike. Then he returned to what he believed was a ready stance.

Arthur stared and an eyebrow twitched. "I see."

He twirled the stick nervously. "Am I that bad?"

"Yer faced the right way," Reilley chirped. The double swat from Alistair and Rhys toppled the Irishman out of his chair.

Dammit.

His face heated up.

It was like flunking out of the Navy again.

No…it was worse.

At least that dismissal had been private.

He threw the stick on the ground and tried to leave. He had to make a break for the Freedom Tent before—

Gentle hands caught him and he fought to be freed.

Arthur sat down with an unsteady "oomphf" onto the ground.

The abruptness pulled Alfred off his feet and he found himself being maneuvered fully into Arthur's hold.

He tried to twist, to wriggle, to flail his way free and…failed. Arthur simply changed his hold from limb to limb as was needed.

It gradually dawned that he was being handled like a fussing child…

Arthur reacted to him with a sort of weary gentleness.

He didn't want to make eye contact with green eyes that had looked on a world that now only echoed in half-forgotten legends.

A Round Table of Knights…

And he couldn't have been one.

Then or now…

"Shh, love. Shhh. Hush now, it's alright. If you want lessons, I'll find you an instructor."

He had no natural talent. He never did.

He never did at anything.

It was always determination that made him skilled.

He knew that.

It still hurt.

"I will. You have my word, if it's something you want, love. Has to be you. Because I don't care, sweet. I don't care either way. You don't need to be a swordsman for me."

It wasn't fair.

"-don't need to be a sailor. You don't need to be any such thing to impress me. I lo-"

He wanted to be better.

The best.

Everything they'd wanted, no, needed him to be and more.

" _Are yeh sure ya know what yer doin'?" the old man asked from the darkness._

 _He almost sounded afraid, "What yer askin' me for?"_

" _My soul enters a Winter from which I will not escape._

 _This, I accept. For them, I submit. For myself, I only ask…_

 _that my Heart forgets Spring._

 _Make me forget."_

 _But why only ask to forget?_

 _The greedy thought sprang forward after he shook the knobby hand of a fae he couldn't see but feel._

 _What evil times were upon him that his magic should fall so low as to leave him groping about? Still, wasn't this proof that the supernatural world was not yet beyond his grasp?_

 _What if his Sight worsened further? And more opportunities of this kind eluded him ever after?_

 _Why only ask to forget?_

 _The fae instructed him gravely to focus only on his wish and nothing more._

 _No, Alfred. Temperance. Caution._

 _O, but he had to strike while the iron was hot!_

 _Why only forget?_

 _When he could barter for so much more?_

 _And what wouldn't he give away to make things how they ought to be?_

 _Yes._

 _His actions would benefit everyone._

 _They needed him to do it._

 _So he could be better, stronger, smarter…more practical, more useful, more cunning._

 _Damn near invincible._

 _He'd misunderstood his role in this grand play of life. He'd rectify it._

 _Be everything they'd wanted him to be._

 _Everything he should've-_

"What?" Arthur's voice hardened. "Why would I want that? I don't want that. Why would I change you? You're perfect."

That quieted all the buzzing.

It was the strangest feeling…

Nostalgic and surreal.

Funny, how he'd waited in crowded conference rooms for someone to say a kind lie like that…

And they never did…

And hearing it now…

 _To thine ownself be true_ …

He couldn't even accept it. _Thanks a lot, Shakespeare_ , he thought glumly.

"I'm not…"

"Being perfect doesn't mean being flawless," Arthur snapped.

He was having trouble wrapping his head around that though.

It seemed along the same lines of what he'd dealt with when he battled Morgana's mirror; that even if he was a screw-up most of the time, he deserved to be loved.

Unfortunately, that last bit leaked over and Arthur went off like a de-pressurized air cabin. The warning lights were on and the masks had dropped. His embrace tightened almost painfully.

Before Alfred could comment on the context, Arthur spluttered angrily, "Of course you deserve to be-of course you-who said otherwise? Who the _**fuck**_ said otherwise, I'll spit on his gr-"

Alfred relaxed into the hug.

It still sucked.

Here Arthur had possessed a confederation of valiant knights and he couldn't have been one.

He wasn't skilled enough or obedient enough or…

He couldn't have been one.

Dammit, he was tearing up again.

Arthur made soothing noises and tried to comfort him.

But he couldn't have been one of his knights.

"Is everything alright?" Mathieu asked.

"O, just a little tantrum," Reilley answered.

"Al?"

And a vicious little voice at the back of his mind whispered that Mattie could.

"Just a little hungry and overtired, I think," Arthur lied easily. "If you could fetch him a bit of jerky, he'll be put to rights."

He remembered seeing Mathieu in uniform, already a lieutenant colonel…outranking him, at Arthur's side. His brother had coldly stared him down as America reaffirmed his declaration of war on the English nation at the meeting.

"Of course."

Pressing American sailors into service for the crown, he couldn't allow it! Harris was right, he had to take a stand or his fa-bro-former colonizer would take advantage!

"That's a good lad. Thank you, Mathieu," Arthur smiled.

His head throbbed.

It wasn't fair.

Mattie _**always**_ got to be the good one.

* * *

Momilani shook her head and switched the video camera off. "This is so tasteless, you two. The most tasteless music video ever, MTV can't compare, I, like, I can't even-"

"Yeah, _I know_ , but Tex is the one who wanted-"

" _Yeah, I know_ , _but it's aaaallll Tex's fault cuz he's an insensitive jackass_ ," Tex mimicked as he put their props away.

"That sounds about right," Momilani muttered.

Tex stuck his tongue out at her.

"My voice isn't that high…is it?" Alfred complained as he set his violin down.

She looked him over. The blond was even wearing a cowboy hat.

It was obvious who he was indulging.

He'd also made a point to take a bunch of Polaroid shots because Tex loved instant results. It was hard to believe there'd been a time when the Texan had had enough patience to wait weeks for pictures to be properly developed and delivered.

Tex leaned against a tree. "Hey, we needed some kind of project as a cover. This was the best I could think of at short notice. They'll watch the first minute, say what you said about it being 'in bad taste' and then switch it off. Mission accomplished. It will provide an alibi. And besides, it's kinda nice bein' out and about without all the dead weight, right?"

Momilani pointed a chipped acrylic fingernail. "You need to straighten things out with your father. He's freaking out. What happened?"

"Well, ya know, he finally figured out that I was learnin' witchcraft…" Tex toyed with the rosary around his neck. "He's Catholic to like the infinity- _nth_ power. Look at their population stats. He's 98 percent Catholic. Other 2 percent's probably another branch of Christianity. He's all worried about my soul…I told 'im it was real late for that." He snickered. "Damn, ya shoulda been there. Shoulda seen his face. He thought I had a hidden basement with a goat skull. He was ready to drag me to Confession and exorcise me."

He snorted.

"It's not that funny."

Tex laughed harder. "It really is."

"Okay, sooooo Tex is sadistic. And you, baby, what's with you?"

"I can't be a knight," America confessed as he tapped a tree root with a corner of his violin's bow.

"Oh." That was a little out of left field.

He was trying so hard not to sound butthurt about it, though. She needed to act compassionate.

"What's the big whoop about that?" Tex scoffed before she could get a word in.

Alfred's cheeks puffed. "Didn't you wanna be one? Or a bullfighter? Or…or something?!"

"Did I want to be a conquistador? Uh, lemme thi-NO. We're gunslingers, Al. It's warrior and weapon evolution. I hope my magical item's like, a Winchester repeating rifle or something. That'd be awesome. You know? So it's useful."

"I hope you get a candle stick," Hawaii grumbled. "Or a thimble."

" _Clue_ has a candle stick, right? They can still be lethal-"

"Don't jinx me…why would you even host those as possibilities?!"

"-Musical triangle," she supplied.

"The almighty spork cuz somebody's gonna get it. Me or You-"

"Cazoo."

"W-why would I deserve-"

"Because you have been awful," Momilani replied. "I can't _**believe**_ the hissy fit you threw today on the raf-"

"-didn't invite any of these-"

She poked his shoulder. "I'm not accepting excuses. Particularly, lame ones."

"How lame was it?" Alfred asked. "Like not using the twisty wire for bread to keep it fresh or woe-is-me limping gazelle?"

"Al? Baby?"

"Yeah?"

"Brace yourself."

"Ooh, it's an impressive one, huh? Gonna have to reset the bar after this?"

" _ **He**_ ," she jerked a thumb in Tex's direction, "called you a deserter."

Alfred's face twitched into a smile, "Did you really? Like all melodramatic? You just yelled it into the open air?" He screwed up his face, "Stella!?"

"I did!"

They both guffawed over that.

Momilani gave the Once-Republic a hard look.

He gave her a playful shove. "Momi, be nice. I ain't a great actor. There ain't gonna be any Oscars for me. I'm just getting my part done."

"I am still talking," Momilani growled. "And you keep cutting me-"

"I'm just trying to keep 'em all out of the way. And bein' moody as Hell is my best bet. And it ain't easy. It helps that I am pretty ticked that we're in this tough spot, _**Al**_."

"I know. I'm sorry," Alfred threw in.

"But it's exhausting being mad as a hornet all the time. I mellowed A LOT once Al and I figured our shit out. I have to, like, channel sixteen year old me so I drink real hard to hold onto that belligerence. Damn, if it don't work though. I mean, look at how you both got to give me as the reason why we needed time alone for this hike?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"It worked."

She crossed her arms. He was trying to play it off like he was less furious than he was. Oh no, no. She and Al knew him better than that. He was upset.

 _ **That**_ was why they'd gone on this hike. He was like a faulty missile that kept arming itself.

Only…instead of just telling them what was up, he was trying to clown around instead.

Which was unusual. He was normally to the point about why he was angry so they could stop 'pushin' his damn buttons' as he put it.

Something was up. "Baby?"

"It worked…well enough…Dammit, Momi…I'm no good at keeping secrets."

She was _**not**_ gonna accept that. "Nononono. You kept yourself one for-"

"Yeah! And do you know how HARD that was?! I keep secrets best by literally not being available for people to ask shit. And it's hard lying to that guy." He looked away. "And I'm…not real great at lying anyway. That's why we usually keep the ball in Al's court."

"Thanks," Al countered.

"I don't mean it like that. It's just…if he keeps pestering me, I…I'm afraid it's gonna slip out. And then we're gonna have to deal with him and Rico tagging along."

Hawaii gave him a shrewd look. "Is that why you wouldn't let Rico come?"

"He knows a lot of my…tics? I guess? Spain's even worse. Look, we don't have that whole magic bond lie-detector thing that Al and Arthur got goin' on…but Spain is good at reading me. Maybe not the atmosphere, but me. I could shake him a few months ago but now…now, he's got my number. And Rico can guess what I'm thinking or what I will think before _I_ even think it. He's almost as good as Mexico. Tch…older sibs suck!"

She rolled her eyes. "I thought you were a card shark back in the good ol' West-"

"Yeah, cards! Not life! I ain't good at bluffin' when it comes to life."

Alfred chewed at his lip and looked down at his shoes.

That wasn't too flattering. And they all knew it was aimed at him.

She sighed. She couldn't really argue it though.

When they'd first met, he'd said he only wanted to be trades partners.

Look at her now. One of his states.

Tex changed the subject.

"Any clue where the gate is? Like via using your magic?" Tex asked while he consulted the compass app on his phone and compared his screen to Osha's map. "I mean, I know we got her coordinates, but…she's shady. She could be leadin' us to something else."

"My feet hurt worse the longer we travel this direction."

"Aaand?"

"I dunno. I think we've got to go there. But…whether it's the gate or not…"

"As good a bet as any. Like a spidey sense-"

"Yeah, but not tonight. We still might be late returning to camp."

"Can't we just go?"

"Tomorrow."

"Al-"

"Bank on tomorrow. I might have to come clean though."

"What?! Al?! Don't involve them-"

"I know! I know I keep flip-flopping. But Dad's just been so honest with me lately, I-"

"Bro-"

"I don't want to ruin everything by being a big fat liar. Even if I **AM** good at it."

"Al, I'm sorry, I-"

America's voice faltered. "…I don't wanna ruin everything cuz I got greedy…thought I could get it all…"

Momilani rested a hand on his shoulder and brought him to her side.

He wrapped his arms around her legs.

It was always hard to stay mad at him.

Even when he made a mess of things.

Even when he deserved it.

"C'mon, baby." She stroked his fair hair. "We'll head back."

"Wait, wait, wait. One more picture. Just one more of Al and me cuz the woods are nice and creepy here-"

"Thanks for pointing that out every two seconds, Bro."

"Me and Al.…and you. I mean, if you want?"

Momilani begrudgingly accepted the camera and tried not to look at her watch as she snapped a few more pics.

She kept telling herself that a genuinely happy Texas _now_ was worth a completely pissed off Spain and England _later_.

* * *

Mathieu frowned as he watched Texas and Arthur argue in escalating tones.

Hawaii was discreetly trying to move America and herself out of the line of fire.

"You're late! It's dark! Antonio and I almost alerted the rangers. I had to text him just now to call him off. You said you would be back by-"

"I needed time away from you geezers. Needed to spend it with true blue Americans!"

"Hey!?"

"You weren't welcome, Rico!" Tex threw in. "Mainlanders only. Contiguous-"

"She's NOT-"

"I don't like you. There, I said it. Tried to spare your feelings, but-"

"¡Andá a cagar, tonto culiado!"

"You gave your word," Arthur rumbled.

That was a dangerous tone. Mathieu felt goosebumps race up his arms.

Alfred knew it too.

"Dad-" Alfred squawked even as Momilani edged them away. "D-"

"No, Alfred. I know who's responsible for your tardiness."

"But-"

"Go sit with your brother."

"But-"

"The Canadian one."

Mathieu nodded at Momilani as she sat down in a chair beside him with Alfred on her lap. "Hey, Al. Momilani."

"Hi."

"Hey, Mattie," Alfred greeted absentmindedly.

"Are you…okay?"

"Huh? Uh, yeah, sure, probably."

"You didn't respond to my text."

"Your…?" Alfred pulled out his phone. "Oh…"

Momilani gave the American a poke.

"Right, sorry. Yeah, fine. I'm…fine. Everything's fine. We're all fine. It's all good, yeah. Isn't it, Momi?"

She gave a dark, unconvincing "sure" that made both brothers shiver a little.

Mathieu looked back over at the eye of the verbal storm.

He already knew the volatility of the argument, having weathered first-hand the storm brewing on Tex's side since Al's "abandoning of their ship," and the anger-born-of-worry simmering on Arthur's side.

Practically the minute, the agreed curfew came and went for Al's hike, Arthur had gotten increasingly distracted. Winning against him at craps and snap had been child's play. The Briton soon gave up at games with Mathieu and his brothers to pace around the site—ignoring Rhys's advice to rest his leg.

In fact, it had been the silent anger of Spain that troubled Canada the most. When it was clear that the trio was going to be very late, he simply got up, announced his intent to file missing persons reports, and left.

"What would a text have hurt? Could've phoned us to let us know you were on your way?"

"We're a grown-ass sovereign nation. We don't owe you that stuff-"

"You didn't let Alfred message me."

"Wha-?"

"He dialed and then he hung up." He raised his phone. "I can see it. It took everything in me to wait-"

"He jumped the gun. I still knew where we were going."

"So you got lost?! And you still didn't call?" Notes of hysterical incredulity were entering Arthur's voice.

"Look, we're a little north of my neck of the woods. Got turned around for a half a second. Tech malfunction. Just had to follow my gut."

"You lead your men on hunches, too?" Spain demanded—having just returned to their site. He crossed his arms and leaned against a tree.

"…sometimes," Tex replied shortly.

"You risk their lives easy then? Those strangers?"

"Your point, Señor?"

"No wonder they breathed a sigh of relief under my command against those wendigo."

"…"

"It's just age-ism!" Alfred interjected. "We look younger and getting respe-"

"Alfred Faer Kirkland, we are not discussing this with you right now! I talk to you next."

"Jones!" Alfred spat.

Arthur took a steadying breath. "Alfred Faer Kirkland-Jones, please wait your turn."

Alfred sagged in Momilani's hold. "I hate when he says the whole thing. My skin crawls. Stupid pansy middle name!"

"That is a perfectly respectable middle n-"

Hawaii reached for a beer from the sloshy inside of an open ice chest. "Goodie, I get to be third. Everyone'll be all warmed up."

Reilley laughed, "No. We know you're the designated hostage."

For a moment, Hawaii looked like she wanted to refute that but briefly made eye contact with Alfred and stayed quiet.

Mathieu leaned forward. Something had just transpired in that exchange, but what?

"And where do you get off moving my tent while I'm out?" Tex shouted.

"You need to be close! Where it is safe!" Spain hissed.

"Precisely, this is basic strategy, boy. Can't you see the formation we're making?" England barked.

In his fury to return his tent to its previous spot, Texas was nowhere near gentle enough.

Alfred and Mathieu flinched at the loud RIIIIIP and the soft "dammit."

"I can fix it, Al, I got duct tape!"

Spain was beyond frustrated. "This is what happens, mijo, when you do not mind your temper and-"

"Shut up! Just shut-Silenci-"

"You mind yourself," the older nation growled. "I have had it with your attitude."

"I-"

"No, you have talked enough. _**You**_ listen now!"

"…"

"Arthur and his brothers sense that there's something unsafe in the woods and we're not taking risks. Now, we saved you supper. If you'll be civil, you can have it. Otherwise, you can go rest. We leave in the morning."

"Fine. No one's got you tied. Y'all can leave if ya wanna! Al and me are staying. We-"

"In a pig's eye!" Arthur screeched. "I won't abandon Alfred to your mad venture-"

"Why not? You've done it before."

Reilley dropped the armful of kindling he was bringing to the fire.

Alistair looked up from the fish he was reheating for the trio.

Mathieu scarcely dared to breathe.

Rhys hovered uncertainly near Mathieu's elbow.

Arthur went white with fury but he didn't speak a word or move an inch.

Momilani sighed.

"That's the truth, ain't it? What?" Tex looked around at the shocked faces. "What, we ain't allowed to say what happened? Cuz…that happened. Happened a lot. Anytime Al displeased you, you dumped him straight off. You treated him like dirt. Guess he's a plant power so that's fitting. Walked all over him through the 1800s. Kicked him like a dog whenever ya felt like it. He always came home with his tail 'tween his legs cuz his old man knew how to scruff him."

Tex shook his head. "What? You come waltzing in now in the eleventh hour of our lives and we're s'posed to what? Make a big hoopla? Calculate you and your thoughts into all of our plans now? You help us out two times and what? That just writes it off?"

Tex bared his teeth. "Oh yeah, let's forget all the times you were terrible. Let's make you feel good about leavin' us in the lurch. Let's fall into line. Let's lick your shoes, so you can feel like a real hero." He put on a mock cheerful voice, "' _Hey, everybody, Papi cares right now. And that cancels out every time he didn't._ ' Yeah, no. Fuck no. That ain't good enough."

Spain approached England who tensed as if preparing for a fight.

As the Spaniard moved, he shouldered Texas hard. The latter almost lost his footing.

Tex cussed under his breath, "Spanish son of a b-"

When Spain was directly in front of England, he knelt.

"I apologize, Inglaterra. As you can see, I did not raise him right. I am sorry and I am ashamed."

* * *

Read & Review Please! It's the season of giving! : D


	45. Chapter 45

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Hetalia_. Or _Young Frankenstein_. Or _The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly_ (best theme music).

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, linguistically, and grammatically). Globe Theatre. Púca fae.

 **AN:** Thank you for your reviews and HAPPY 2019! Look who has internet again! :D Hope you all enjoy this chap!

 **Chapter 45: And I Wore My Shoes All Through Here**

* * *

Mathieu watched Rico drop the marshmallow he'd been toasting and it was only because of spending centuries in military forces that Mathieu reached out and caught the stick before it hit the ground.

He almost threw it back before remembering that it wasn't a grenade to spring a counterattack with.

Unfortunately, that left him awkwardly holding it; Puerto Rico was too absorbed in watching the trainwreck occurring before them to take it back.

Arthur heaved a sigh. "Of all the melodramatic—Antonio, get up. This isn't the Globe Theatre."

"That was not cool, Bro!" Alfred slid down from Momilani's lap onto the ground. He strode over to the eye of the proverbial storm.

Tex clenched his jaw and a muscle ticked, but he forced out a "sorry, Al."

Alfred gave a hard nod to show his acceptance of the apology.

And then, to Mathieu's incredulity, took his spot next to the Texan—coolly eyeing Arthur as the latter helped Antonio to his feet.

"He's not wrong. He's just got bad timing," Al remarked flippantly.

"Lads," Alistair called from where he was prodding at several brook touts he was roasting. "Don't get your knickers in a bunch. Yer hunger-paikt or ack, what are yeh callin' it now? Hangry? Yer hangry. Sit yer arses down and have some-"

"No. I won't let you make him the bad guy!" Alfred argued. "And since he's already spoken for me, I'll speak for him." He stopped in front of Antonio.

Tex rubbed at his forehead like he was getting a headache. "Sorry, Al."

Alfred shrugged. "I wasn't ever gonna say it like it was…so you did."

Tex scuffed the toe of his hiking boot into the dirt and once more muttered, "…sorry, Al."

"No sorries needed. I'm just gonna do the same. Fair?"

Tex shifted uncomfortably but gave a signal of go ahead.

Like a viper, Alfred struck: "He was what? 13 or 14 when Mexico threw you out? And let's be honest, she ain't the nurturing type. Heck, from what I've heard it was always housekeepers and stewards and manservants looking out for Tex. Then he struck out on his own at 15 and did his best to develop into a decent person while growing up on the lawless streets of Laredo or out on the frontier, or up in the frontlines of the Indian Wars, or out on warships during the World Wars, and 'Nam and so on. Sooo, first part of his life…uh, _not_ you. Middle to Present part of his life…not you either. So, you can kinda stick it with what you just said cuz you didn't raise him _**at all**_."

"…You let me think he was dead."

Alfred was unrepentant. "You never asked me about him. You never came over. We waited! Cuz if him 'dying' wasn't enough to drag your ass back to the New World, nothing was gonna-"

"Freedom Tent," Tex stated abruptly.

"Tex-" Al started.

"Sorry, Al, I just can't-stick a fork-I'm flippin' charcoal. I-I was _**so**_ done over a century ago. I'm not up for this-"

Alfred nodded. "I'll be in soon…just give me a minute."

"Right."

Alfred calmly watched Texas cross over to their tent and duck inside. He clicked the tips of his nails together.

One could've almost mistaken it for boredom or obliviousness or apathy, especially given the almost inane smile curving his lips, but his eyes gave him away.

Fury.

Mathieu felt a trill of alarm race up his spine.

Alfred wasn't loud.

He wasn't bombastic.

And he shouldn't have been smiling. But he was.

It violated everything he thought he knew about his brother…his brother, who was always frivolous and flamboyant and relatively harmless for all his great strength. Who, recently in Arthur's care, was explosive about his sorrows or annoyances but…

Dieu…

It was jarring to experience an…implosion?

His footsteps were near silent.

And his voice, while the volume of a whisper, was far too vicious to be called such.

Quite suddenly Mathieu felt a shadow of understanding come over him as to why Alfred's government had such trouble reconciling their nation as a sensitive being with feelings.

He was frightfully inhuman when he was in a true rage…it was the unsettling dissonance…the frigidity of his fury..

"He held out for 50 years," he hissed under his breath, through the dazzling white of his smile. "Good God, what the fuck took you so long to give a damn?"

Like it was an amusing riddle.

"Alfred?!" Arthur choked.

"No…" he studied his nails again. "You squeaked by because I left the door in unlocked." He waved a scolding finger at Antonio. "Tex is more practical than me. That's a deadbolt there." He laughed. It was strange, unsettling, almost airless—it was more facial movement than sound. "You're gonna have to do something epic, something fan-fucking-tastic to dismantle that barricade."

Without a word more, he turned and strode across the clearing and scuttled into the shabby American tent.

Mathieu couldn't tell if it was worse than when he'd sung _Fine Flowers in the Valley_ or not.

It left that same stomach twisting electricity in the air.

Arthur made to follow but Alistair grabbed his arm—abandoning his cooking tasks to Reilley.

"Let 'em go. Give them a moment."

"…rubbish." The Briton wrestled himself free.

He limped over to the Americans' tent, knelt down, and ducked in after Alfred.

They heard Texas squawk, "Oi, you are not allowed entrance into this sacred Yankee Doodle Fortress of-Hey! HEEEEEEY!"

Arthur shuffled out on his knees with the original posterboy of Yankee Doodle Dandyness in his arms and brought him over to the campfire.

"Did you have permission to enter our tent?" Alfred snapped.

"Did the ground miraculously stop bothering you?" Arthur asked shrewdly. "If so, I'll return you to the joys of your frill-free tent. So sorry to spoil your flair for the dramatic with my concern for your wellbeing."

For a moment, Alfred's face was mutinous.

It was splotchy and unpleasant and…dare Mathieu say it? Ugly. It was a look of naked ugliness.

And yet, there was something honest about its savagery.

Oui…there was a reason Alfred's government was so…ill-equipped to handle him.

But it seemed so outlandish. He was having difficulty accepting it.

Canada must've been making a ridiculous trout face of astonishment because America's eyes caught his staring and they widened with a cutting look of calculation.

To Mathieu's amazement, Alfred consciously smoothed his features.

His younger brother forced himself to take deep breaths and his skin tone evened out.

"Shhh, love. It's alright," Arthur cooed.

Alfred maintained eye contact with Mathieu for a beat more than wrapped his small arms around Arthur's neck and tucked his face into Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur traced circles and various designs onto the child's back. "There, there. Thought we already covered this. You come to me. You don't run off. Please. _Please_ , don't run off. I cannot resolve problems between us without you."

There was a small nod.

"I'm here. I'm right here. See? I'm still here," Arthur murmured softly.

"…I…didn't know that…back then."

"I know. I'm sorry."

Alfred twisted his hands into Arthur's jacket. "He's not a bad guy for saying it like it-"

"Did I say that? Did I say Texas is a-"

"No…but you think he's a pain-"

Arthur's lips twitched with guilty amusement.

A hand clamped Mathieu's shoulder. "What's wrong, laddie?"

He shakily moved with the Scotsman back to where the fish were heating or cooking or whatever, unsure of how to convey his hunch.

He looked over his shoulder and found Alfred watching him with dark blue eyes. Arthur turned to look at him as well and then to stare at the marshmallow he was carrying around.

He found himself stuttering, "Do…you want a marshmallow?"

His heart beat hard and heavy, unsure of how to take the recent events.

Was Alfred being sincere?

Was Arthur being manipulated?

Was it a little of both?

"No, dear." Arthur smiled a bit warily. "How about you, love?"

"…"

"Alfie?"

Alfred's eyes at least moved in the direction of the treat this time. "N-no thanks. I've…had enough sweets today. B-but thanks."

Arthur's agitation was palpable.

"Alfred," he enunciated with a hard edge. "Alfred, let me…talk to him…with your... _blessing_."

It sounded like that cost the Briton a lot.

"I won't see you oppressed by-"

Mathieu felt his insides twist. Or maybe Arthur was doing some manipulating of his own? Using just the right trigger words to-

"Dad-"

"-his will. I won't allow it."

He wanted a word of release; an unfettered Arthur could tell the Texan what for…and more.

But Alfred wouldn't give it. "Please…please just…don't fight with him. He just went too far that's all. You were gonna win, so he had to go for the ace up his sleeve."

Arthur inhaled deeply and exhaled in a long forced stream of steadiness.

That Anger Management counseling had worked wonders. Mathieu might have to write them a glowing review.

Alfred smiled vacantly. "I know…I know he's being ornery but please…he's right. And it's not just you guys…I know it seems like it's all at you guys but…"

"Alfred."

His brother focused on Arthur.

His little face sort of twitched.

The Briton pressed their foreheads together.

"Alfred," he drew the name out. The syllables were spoken warmly, tenderly. "My Alfred Faer Kirkland...Jones."

But that was to be expected, wasn't it? Arthur had named him. Mathieu felt a pang for a father that had never known let alone named him. Sure, he had "Vinland" but he'd never been given a real, human—

He was surprised when Alfred didn't melt from the affection being handed to him on a silver platter.

Instead, the American stilled like there was a gun barrel against his back; he didn't want to say more, but Arthur's concern was palpable.

And his love held more power over Alfred than Mathieu ever imagined.

It came just as quick and quiet as his earlier tirade.

But without venomous confidence, Alfred sounded oddly fragile. "He's actually frustrated with me. He's right to be. I left him. I…I keep leaving him outta the loop. I shouldn't. It's my fault. I let it come to thi-"

Mathieu felt his jaw tighten.

Maybe it was because it was said so bitterly?

Maybe it was because Alfred believed it so thoroughly?

But Mathieu's heart twisted.

It was rather ironic; he found himself completely understanding his Texan brother's enmity following Mathieu's moronic Christmas stunt last year.

But what sided them together…was now what drove them apart.

He did _**not**_ like seeing his little brother get bullied.

It was weird to behold because Alfred was usually so dominant and aggressive that it was hard to imagine anyone but Arthur trying to control him.

But then…

It wasn't in the active sense of Al being pushed around (because Mathieu would not have tolerated that for a second and he wanted to believe Alfred himself would never allow it either) but Tex knew how to throw his weight emotionally.

He'd been around long enough to be owed lots of favors and privy to intimate information.

He was dependable enough that Alfred allotted him a lot of leeway in all things. It made him dangerous.

Even when he wanted to stir up trouble, a lot of Mathieu's strikes were hit and miss—partly because he and Al had different values and Al could shake off criticism with a laugh and partly because…well…Mathieu usually had difficulty going in for the kill.

Yes, he had made their brother cry with a rant once but…

But…

While he'd make a hit now and then, he never went for the jugular.

So it was always hit…and miss…

To give Al time to recover...

They'd had enough battles in real time, they didn't need private ones.

But Texas knew their little brother best, better than him, he realized ruefully…

...and he never missed.

Violet eyes narrowed.

He never missed.

The label Tex gave him: Deserter.

It was such an over-the-top insult for the setting. On retrospect, it was nearly comical.

Until one realized, he was aiming at something else. Something so far in the past…

It was a casual poke with deadly accuracy to such a trying time of their shared history: him, England, America.

Mathieu hadn't noticed it at first.

It landed harder on Alfred because it highlighted a difference between them all.

Mathieu was a person who stayed; his loyalties, once secure, were unshakeable.

Tex was the kind who waited to move on until everyone else "left" first (though Mathieu wasn't about to let the Civil War go and would gladly dredge it up given half the chance).

Alfred was someone who'd leave.

Whether it was a room or a situation or…a family that didn't support his pursuit of sovereignty…

 _Deserter…_

No, Tex never missed.

He was a sharpshooter.

* * *

Alistair hefted another log onto the fire as if it could burn away his uncertainties— glad once again, that the rest (save himself and Canada) had turned in early.

It made keeping watch more tranquil.

Maybe it was his own experience of having endured bad parenting first hand, but he did feel for the Texan brat.

It was hard not to when he recalled Texas and Puerto Rico's argument in the Freedom Tent earlier that night.

They had no indoor voices so it was easy to follow their row.

 _Puerto Rico was unsympathetic. "It says more about how drunk he was than anything about you. You said it yourself he couldn't remember his own damn name, how was he going to remember yours? You know that's why he says 'Mijo' all the time, so he can't be wrong."_

" _Yeah well, the second time he couldn't remember my damn name…And my damn name IS his name. I knew then. I knew I never wanted to be called it again."_

 _It hadn't helped that Spain, who was nearby on his cellphone, visibly flinched and his shoulders fell with the weight of defeat. He looked over at the tent and sighed. "Hm? Sí, Lovi." He nodded again. "Sí."_

Alistair wasn't a fluent Spanish speaker. But he picked up enough to know Spain was heading home. He knew when to fold.

Some things just couldn't be fixed.

Like the bloody fog creeping through.

Something about it had him unsettled.

It wasn't until he was instructing Canada on a Star Guide formation (because the Romany Spread was just too visually overwhelming for someone so green) that he figured out what it was.

He tapped Mathieu on the shoulder as the latter shuffled the deck to try again.

Mathieu was bollocks at tarots, but his earnest attempts in trying to learn the art made Alistair feel compelled to continue instructing him. At any rate, him knowing a wealth of formations could prove helpful in the future...though not in the way the Canadian might expect.

His brother was the one with talent, but Alistair wasn't sure his nephew had the memory necessary to remember all the different spreads. He'd noted over the years that America tended to streamline things after doing them for a time...and then forgot older methods he might use. (It was for that reason Alistair made a habit of forcing Alfred to strike up a match now and then or use a lens to catch the sun's light to start a fire. So he didn't grow too dependent on instant fire chemicals and gaslighters. He was actually overdue in making such a demand, though with Alfred's new age and form, Arthur would likely interfere.)

Still, perhaps letting Mathieu have the knowledge and Alfred have the skill would be a good way to teach the boys cooperation? Sometimes in a coven one had to team up, even when tensions were high.

Hell, sometimes Gwalia still managed to offer up some nugget of knowledge that blindsided Alba; some rearrangement of instruction or introduction to a spell or elixir he'd never heard of. And he'd relay it to Alba then because:

 _Hazel eyes appraised him quizzically. "I'm telling you because you're the one who'd perform it best.'_

Mathieu frowned at the cards.

"Pocket those for now. C'mon, laddie, I'll teach yeh something more practical."

Violet eyes looked up a bit gratefully.

Alistair grinned. "How to close an UnSeelie portal without iron shavings."

Because they were nosy little bastards.

"T-they're here?! Like Grym?"

"Nah, not like him. But unwelcome all the same. Now, you had a hand for directional magic, right? Did you bring a pendulum with you? No? Tha's fine. Make yourself the instrument. Try to focus on which element or watch tower favors you."

Mathieu hesitated.

"You can call on all four if yer not sure yet."

The lad nodded and evoked them quietly without needing a prompt and using a lighter in place of a candle.

Interesting substitute.

He was a quickstudy, Alistair would give him that. "Close your eyes. Feel the current of them. Be a needle o' that compass. Point to where they're wanting you to go."

Mathieu took a deep breath, flicked his lighter off, and pocketed it. After a few moments, he pointed to the northern edge of their campsite.

Alistair smiled. "Good. Follow my lead."

He strolled over and maintained a farce of asking Mathieu about hockey training regiments.

The two continued conversing until they were right near the bushes and then Alistair promptly reached in and pulled a púca out.

Interesting. As a rural type of UnSeelie, he'd have been more at home near a farmhouse than deep in the woods.

Which meant, he was definitely where he shouldn't be.

He casually drew his Claymore from the ether.

From the looks of him, the UnSeelie damn near wet himself. His horselike ears twitched.

"O-Oi, we were invited!" the Unseelie squawked. "Brenhin called to us with-"

"Like Hell he did. And I expect a letter of apology for harassin' us with that sign o' yers."

"Sign?"

Damn thing, playing dumb.

"Get you and yours gone, I won't be merciful again." He tapped the flat of his sword against the cretin's face and then let him go.

The creature scrambled back into the surrounding darkness.

There was rustling along the bushes and sounds of disagreement and hushed insistence about "Brenhin calling them and they shouldn't abandon their posts."

Scotland began a countdown. "Còig...ceithir…trì...dhà...aon."

Gone.

He smirked and turned to Mathieu. "Gotta have a firm hand with their sort. Now, this is a small infestation. There's just the one portal which you sensed. Here."

Mathieu nodded.

"Now, yeh never want to just leave a portal like this around. Fae are mischievous even when they're feelin' benevolent. And there are different sorts of doors. Now, fae (UnSeelies in particular) make this type as a revolving door for their kind. Put a hand out. Good."

He put his own out as well. "Cold. See? Tingly cold but not an up-the-spine shiver. And it's in a dark spot, hard to see. That's their usual. Nooks, crannies, shadowy spots...they tear a seam and then they just come and go whenever they please. But spirits can come through too. Problem is fer them...it's just an entry point and then they get stuck here." He paused for a moment. "This is for a different lesson but...whenever you come across a ghostie exit...DON'T close it. You just close the entries fer that lot. Anyways, back to what I was jabberin' about. The more that get stuck, the more haunted and charged a place can get. Enough energy...and then it can let somethin' worse through."

Mathieu swallowed.

"Easy there. That usually takes far more time and a good deal of evil. But, prevention is always best. Now, if we were in a house, we'd have access to candles, sage, iron shavings, and incense. We don't have that. Go grab us some salt."

The lad ran back to grab a shaker.

"Now, usually you'll want to write out a spell in advance for this sort of thing but intent is more important than wording. No fear. That's key. Whatever spell you decide to make will work for you because it'll be how you like it."

"So...you want me to…?"

If he'd sounded more confident, Alistair would've handed him the reigns.

"Watch."

Mathieu nodded in relief and handed the salt over.

Alistair sent his sword back to the ether (he wouldn't be needing it; these had been low level harvest fae congregating). He then prowled around the spot and shook salt into his hand.

" _Away. Away. Tha cannot stay._

 _Yeh've no purpose. Yeh've no say._

 _Get thee gone. Seal the way._

 _Away. Away. Tha cannot stay."_

He chanted it twice and threw down the salt at the end of each line. The portal dissipated and Alistair bent down to scoop up the salt he'd thrown, mixed with the dirt and shadow.

He walked over to the campfire and threw it in.

"And that's just good housekeeping."

"Do you think Arthur's going to still make us leave in the morning?" Mathieu asked.

"Aye. And he'll be livid that goblins are still acting like rabid fanboys for little Al. We'd be goin' right now if I told him. But that can wait til morning. Let 'em rest."

"And you're...alright with leaving?"

"If Arthur's going to fuss the whole while we're here then, yes, I'd rather us just go."

Damn.

The portal was closed and he still felt off.

"You check the perimeter for any more portals, alright? I'm gonna check in on everyone."

Mathieu gave an affirmative nod that was a bit too zealous and hurriedly pulled his lighter back out.

Alistair took a turn around their site. There was a twin chorus of snoring from the Spanish tent. From the electronic sounds coming from her quarters, Momilani was playing a game on her phone.

Tex's tent was silent so the boy was still awake. (Snoring was apparently a dominant gene in Spain's line.)

He debated whether to invite him out but ultimately decided to leave him to his thoughts.

Scotland then braved his family's tent.

Eire was lying haphazardly across his air mattress...the wrong way...that was why no one liked bunking with him. He spun around like a top or a compass needle trying to find north.

Meanwhile, on the opposite side, Arthur's space had a heap of blankets. Was he taking ill from stress?

He wavered over whether to fess up and inform the lot of them about the UnSeelie infestation. But he and Mathieu had managed it. Surely, it could wait until morning? So long as nobody had been spirited away.

He stilled.

Where was Alfred?

Had he gone back into Tex's tent?

He moved closer to England's bed.

He didn't see the anklebiter.

"He's here. With me," England spoke—pulling down the coverlet enough so Scotland could see the laddie.

There was a mess of blankets and stuffed animals and kiddie crap—fairytale stories and the like.

Even in the dim light, Alistair could see his brother petting the child's hair tenderly.

Safe.

He released the breath he'd been holding.

"...checking on us?"

"Just...just doin' my rounds." He watched Alfred squirm and try to burrow into Arthur's chest—not liking the moist chill in the air that night.

And Arthur was just taking it. He moved the blankets back over the child and himself and tightened his hold— even though all that heat couldn't be comfortable for him. Alistair could smell the sweat. Arthur was definitely overheated.

"Oh."

And didn't care.

And it dredged up all the times America arrived disheveled and early and Alba sent him away for fear his pitiful appearance would spark cruelty.

Alfred made a sound of annoyance and Arthur gave an absent-minded kiss to the top of that messy blonde mop.

"Aye." He turned on his heel to go when—

"...thank you...for checking on him..."

"..."

"...for me."

"W-whatever." He stalked over to Rhys's bedding to make sure his eldest brother was present before getting the hell out.

"Nos da, brawd," Rhys offered as Alistair stood near.

He felt his face heat—knowing his eldest brother had witnessed the whole debacle from the moment he'd stepped foot in. Bassa probably recorded it!

"Piss off, ya sheep-shagger. And I wore my shoes all through here."

That should've soured things but Rhys burst out snickering.

It got worse when Arthur and Reilley joined in.

Unwilling to be a source of amusement, he wrenched the tent flap open and found himself face to face with a stricken Canada.

"Ack! Spit it out, laddie!"

"We're surrounded!"

* * *

It was 3 in the morning.

Alfred yawned. Maybe BECAUSE it was 3 in the morning, the fact that their campsite had been "raided" and another sign, this time: _Leave While You Can,_ wasn't hitting him full force.

Alfred sat huddled up on his fold-out chair with a stuffed animal and a mug of hot chocolate. He'd passed up on Reilley's offer for witching-hour bird-watching. Which had been a less than subtle means to get him a couple spans away and out of earshot.

He couldn't leave when it was so tense.

Cuz he was more worried about this right here than some stupid witch and whatever beef they had.

He was seeing firsthand the cocktail of volatile ingredients that culminated in Arthur being violent to his Southwestern brother.

He'd been shocked to hear Arthur had more than threatened but physically assaulted his brother several times during his capture.

But now…

While he'd never condone it…

He was…kinda understanding why the two kept locking horns:

Texas was irreverent even when he was at his friendliest and England stood on ceremony. He lived to be hailed as a figure of import in every gathering he attended.

He'd been King-freaking-Arthur!

Tex's total disregard for anything the Briton said infuriated the elder nation to new levels of hostility.

Apparently, even when things were at their worst between them, England let America get away with a lot.

He was starting to see that.

His old man hadn't even begrudged him over the previous night. He'd been more than a bit surprised when the Briton ushered him into the tent by waving Willywoolingywch and a small fairytale book.

" _...I can...stay?" He stared._

 _Arthur almost dropped the toy. "O-of course you can-you were defending your brother, I understand that even when I think it unnecessary."_

" _But…" He motioned between them._

" _Wot? You think that affects us? That doesn't affect us. Matter's already settled."_

" _It is?"_

" _No quarrel will ever be severe enough that I'd want you to leave."_

 _Which...challenged a lot of memories he had where he'd felt justified in storming out…_

 _And where England had downright threatened that America's behavior would warrant a hasty departure._

 _Though…_

 _Alfred blinked in realization._

 _Though...he never had actually carried such things out..._

" _You never said that before."_

" _I would have, if I'd known you needed to hear it. What can I say, poppet? I'm old. Sometimes I'm a little slow."_

And even while that melted him like cheese in a fondue pot.

It put things into a sharper relief; Arthur didn't have any tender feelings for Tex.

At all.

And that meant he wasn't willing to take any flack.

He alternated between neutrality and hostility.

No peanut butter sandwiches and ironed shirts for him!

He rubbed sleep out of his right eye and then slapped himself on the cheek to try and wake himself up.

He needed coherence if he was going to mediate things between them.

It didn't help that Tex felt like he was manning a gatling gun alone.

In the two seconds of privacy they'd had in the tent—

" _Hey, sorry if I cut it too close to the quick," Alfred apologized._

 _But instead his bro abruptly asked him, "Did you have a flashback on the raft? Is that what happened?"_

" _Yes." Surprised that they were talking about that and not the soap opera situation they were currently in._

" _Did you tell Arthur and not me?"_

 _The question hung like Agent Orange before the burning started; and surviving phase one just meant more agonies._

"… _Yes."_

 _It was good that the inside of the tent was dark so he didn't have to see._

" _Dammit, Allie. It hurts that you ain't talking to me anymore. There was a time when you'd tell me first…not as an afterthought."_

"…"

And then his dad burst onto the scene and whisked him away and he'd been forced to sneak quick texts to try and mend matters between the two of them.

It was bad getting one words replies like: _Fine_ , _Sure_ , and _Whatevz_.

While his bro had been adamant that he'd never make him choose a side, Alfred was finding that trying to be on two teams at once wasn't working out either.

Tex scoffed, "You're blowing things WAY out of proportion! You didn't even see nobody! I mean, nothin' actually happened. They left a sign. O the horror."

"Why are you being so pigheaded?" Arthur reached for Texas's lapel but Antonio swatted his hand away. "Spain, he's being unreasonable. Do something. Get him under control!"

"Who the Hell do you think-"

"I am sorry, Arthur. Nothing works with him," the Spaniard remarked gravely.

He was being the unruly jackass because Alfred couldn't bring himself to be.

Hawaii gave him a look. He could almost hear the scolding 'Tell them'

He looked away. Tex had to hold the line for a little while longer until he could think of something.

He got a gentle poke in the ribs from Alistair.

"C'mon, we're having a lesson. I gave Mathieu his last night. You get yours now."

Alfred sighed as he played with his dragon toy's wings and nodded at the cards beside him.

"I keep getting 'The Tower.'"

Scotland's eyebrows furrowed. "Well, that ain't good, laddie."

Figures. "Why?"

"It's a card of calamity."

"...oh." Great.

"It might not be you. It might be because you live with that," Mathieu offered. He gave Texas a sharp look.

"Don't start!" Alfred snapped. "He's upset that's all-"

"Why?"

"...lots of reasons..." More than he could accurately list in one sitting.

"Like?"

More than he'd feel comfortable sharing to people who wouldn't understand all the shit they'd been through over the years. And then there was the principle of the thing. It wasn't his side of their story to share.

Texas hadn't been like him in the 1800s; losing everything just made him tough, it hadn't turned him inside out and mean.

It hurt him worse though...because of that…

He'd always...cared more...when things went wrong.

When the heroes on their horses...couldn't save the day...

"I...uh...I didn't go rafting yesterday."

His uncle and his brother gave him a look.

Yeah, it was weak even to his own ears. _Sorry, Tex, you aren't making out so well. Curse you, 3 in the morning brain!_

And his bro really DID have the absolute worst timing. Like when he decided annexation was the best course of action, riiiight when America was having serious issues balancing slave states and free states and promoting emancipation.

Or like…

Tex's shadow fell over him.

Right. Now.

"C'mon, Al." His brother gave him a rough shove on the shoulder. "We're goin' hiking."

"Um?" Dude, he wasn't even dressed yet!

"Now, we gotta-"

"You leave him alone." Mathieu's voice was low and stony.

Crap. That was a tone he usually only heard while playing hockey.

A sort of thou-shalt-not-score mixed with Frau Blücher!

He could almost hear the horses whinnying.

It made him kinda wish Prussia was there. That dude was great at interrupting stuff.

"Well, lookee here. Someone wants to dance? Think you can go toe-to-toe with me, Canuck?"

And cue the theme of _The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly._

Alfred waved his hands desperately. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Ex nay on the-"

"This was _**supposed**_ to be a _**peaceful**_ holiday," Mathieu shot back in that snobby tone he'd use whenever Alfred played the part of obnoxious American too well and committed faux pas after faux pas.

Only it wasn't aimed at him so he couldn't laugh it off.

"It's plenty peaceful," Alfred outright lied. "I-I'm relaxed-"

"Shut up, Al!"

"Don't tell him to-"

"Well, you're trying to call me out, ain't cha?"

"Beau cave!"

"Oh yeah? Well, we got places to be!" Tex blindly reached behind him for Alfred and dragged him out of the chair.

Alfred landed hard on his knees and was hoisted up via his left arm.

Still, he'd only endured a painful instant of dangling (two seconds at most) before Reilley came to his rescue.

"Yeh header, what're yeh doin'?! Gonna break his arm or disloc-"

"Shoot! Sorry, Allie-"

Reilley spirited Alfred away to Rhys and Arthur and through the gaps in their arms watched in horror as Mathieu socked Tex hard in the chest.

Big mistake.

Tex was itching for a fight.

Why wouldn't he be?

Cuz he was always waaay better at fighting than arguing.

* * *

Read & Review Please! : D


	46. Chapter 46

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia, Ted Talks, The Prestige, Dungeons&Dragons, or the Oregon Trail game.

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, linguistically, and grammatically). Head-canon: America would be an epic mailman. Puritan Punishment. EVERY territory in the history of mankind EVER has pretty much had dreams of expansion and I think it's kinda dishonest when that goes unacknowledged. Family drama to the max. The max! Consider yourself warned D :

 **Special Warning:** Somewhat graphic visceral imagery (at least strongly alluded to).

 **AN:** Something I found interesting: in Latin, "idiota" referred to an uneducated layman rather than a straight-up "idiot" back in the day. Also, I love those Do Not Cross Field signs: "Unless you can do it in 9 seconds because the bull can do it in 10."

Thank you for your reviews and continued interest. This chap took a while because it kept growing and there were was no beautiful break-spot until the end. And here's a super long chapter! Enjoy! : D

 **Chapter 46: He Couldn't Even Blame Beer For This**

* * *

Texas slumped back against a tree. He'd gotten cocky. That was for damn sure.

He'd still won...technically…

So take that world. One more tally on the chalkboard for Tex.

Cuz that's what mattered, right?

Matt was the one who ended up doubled over before the round was done because Tex could take a hit and keep coming. There was a tipping point.

If he had to give one of them Ted Talks, he'd probably center it around that.

Survive enough curb-stomp battles and before long the taker-of-hits became the dealer-of-punishment.

It was hard to pinpoint exactly when he'd crossed that line. Some time after the Alamo but before Wounded Knee, he'd stopped being the underdog.

But Matt was still a sovereign nation; he had a level of gusto that shouldn't have been underestimated.

And maybe...if Tex was only able to draw on his state's population and modern maps outlining his border, Matt would've held his own even better. The Canadian was disciplined and he fought in a logical, straight forward sort of way: the military-European-esque tactician's way.

He was all strategy and preservation of energy and minimal risk-taking. He punched and kicked with a sort of refined, drilled vibe.

He felt a lot like how Al had been, but Matt's muscular frame was mostly for show...just potential.

He wasn't ready for the unpredictable chaos and lean mean brutality that was Texas (who'd daily grappled with America since the 1820s out of annoyance, amusement, and o'course...desire for the last slice of pie).

Matt didn't understand how Tex's history and the culture it tied into sprawled in ways that belied the truths that cartographers toted.

Tex had always kinda been an area of dispute.

Being Coahuila y Tejas had given him a taste of what it would be like expanding past his borders. He was ambitious by the time he was the Republic of Tejas—spreading out into New Mexico, Oklahoma, Kansas, Colorado, and tapping Wyoming.

It wasn't hard to dream about Alta California, though he never pitched the idea officially.

He'd just known Mejico's control over that area was weak and he might've confided it to America...better to see it out of her hands and into Al's...and his...

Then he'd gone and taken up the Confederate mantle in the mid-1800s which left an imprint on all that territory.

Plus, lingering Spanish influence from the south through Florida and over through the southwest and western coast...kinda always meant he felt a bit more attuned to those citizens than Al did.

But he'd been to and fought for, bled on, and died all over the U.S. of A...it gave him ties to the land...like Al…

He was power hungry. Always had been. That's what had drawn Tejas and America together at the start. Viciously ambitious, the two of them. Just...somewhere along the way he'd fallen out of love with power for its own sake.

It was better when he had someone to toast its rewards with. It wasn't that he'd gone soft. Nah, he'd gone sharp instead and he didn't mind being used. Not when he got to use Al back.

They knew each other; the best and worst they had to give.

They _knew_ each other; who was better at what, who should zig while the other zagged.

The cherry on top was what he and Al had never told nobody: the ultimate ace up their sleeve.

In the time before Tejas had been officially labeled Antonio Junior...he'd referred to and thought of...himself as...America.

He _had_ to be the New World because he was certainly newer than Azura.

And America or Americus (he'd gone back and forth because the first sounded nice but the latter was masculine) Fernández Carriedo just sounded so good when he'd been young. And if his padre wasn't going to get around to naming him...he figured he'd pick one for himself.

That he must've been named something already as he'd been baptized as an infant never crossed his mind.

Being a New World sounded glorious and he latched onto that before his siblings or anyone else could wrest it away.

Aaaand that was probably the reason he could always step in so seamlessly whenever Al suffered a death or needed someone in a critical spot.

And why forms signed _America_ or _Jones_ could be from either one of them. They liked it that way. It meant they shouldered praise and blame together. He didn't think either of them intended to like it, cuz they were both super self-important, but it wound up that way all the same. And it was great how Alfred could be there at some dull meeting distracting them all while Tex was out and about getting stuff done. None of the Euros ever wondered at it. How America got so many damn missions and projects in the World Wars accomplished.

The Native American tribes had figured it out fast during the Indian Wars—that there were two of them—and started planning ambushes to the point that he and his brother stopped trying to coordinate attacks separately and just rode into battle together.

And if Al hadn't suffered an unplanned death last year at such late notice and their government hadn't insisted on Tex filling in for Al and the fact that Al really wanted him to get along with them because they could make life real uncomfortable for the next decade...who knows how long they could've kept it up? It wasn't like any of the Old World powers really kept in touch with the indigenous tribes on the continent so there wasn't a big risk of being found out.

It was kinda why he'd liked that _Prestige_ movie so much. Even though there weren't horses or cowboys in it. Though...that could've made it better, probably.

God, it just worked.

They worked.

As long as they stayed together.

Al was smart. He liked being one step ahead. He liked having secrets and backup plans and escape routes. He was crafty and crazy like that. He liked to win by playing the odds. The more fantastical the scheme played out, the better. Liked that nobody believed things went down one way or another, cuz it let him pull victories out of thin air.

Tex also liked winning.

His style wasn't as flashy.

He won because he refused to lose. He could play the long game out. He didn't fold. He knew where to be and he could be counted on to be there. That sounded real damn simple in theory but it wasn't in practice. Not where Al was concerned and some of the shit he liked to pull.

Tex's stubbornness and willingness to see things to the end was probably how he earned Al's respect.

And he could stake himself on those qualities, could be trusted to uphold them.

The catch was Al had to be upfront with him. And Al was such a sneaky bastard being totally honest with anybody was like pulling eye teeth. Scratch that. Too simple and clean. It was more like pulling his brains out through his nose with a poker like them Ancient Egyptians did to their dead.

Still, Matt not knowing about _all_ of that made Tex's win feel like he'd stacked the deck.

Didn't feel that way when he was fighting Scotland...but Matt was technically a brother.

Didn't know why that mattered. He doubted he'd feel as guilty over giving Colombia the uppercut he deserved...flippin-dangerous-drug-making-fight-starting weirdo. Tex was still hesitant over Al taking trips down there even though the latter insisted his big brother was mellowing out and becoming a tourist spot.

Maybe it was good that Spain had intervened before the fight could turn real ugly.

Though...damn...it hurt his pride bad that Spain was still stronger and faster than Tex had anticipated.

He was supposed to be old and out of shape and a has-been. Like a worn-out dishrag!

Sure he hadn't expected the man to just jump in (so the element of surprise had been on the Spaniard's side) but...it was kinda embarrassing that it only took a handful of seconds for Spain to get him in a headlock and drag him back.

In a real fight...he'd have been dead. A knife through the ribs or armpit or throat and he'd been done.

Instead, Spain had just repeated over and over. " _¡Cálmate!"_

He'd been given a soft squeeze at the neck to let him know that if Spain wanted to, he could choke him out.

Which...honestly...given that option...actually DID cool his jets.

And there was the fact that he hadn't really wanted to be in a brawlfest in the first place—it just wasn't in him to back down when he was so obviously called out.

" _Tranquilo." Spain drew the word out—low and deep and unyieldingly. It was more command than suggestion._

 _And it should've pissed him off but he was kinda relieved to have the fight over with because America had an undeniable soft spot for Canada and Tex was seriously pressing his luck._

 _The others rushed past to get to Canada and he wasn't spared a glance. Not even of condemnation. He got a funny feeling that it had less to do with him proving he was an aggressive force that wouldn't put up with any shit from them and more to do with Spain being there._

 _Apparently, being in Spain's grip, literally, either meant they considered Tex's reign of terror over or…_

" _Tranquilo."_

 _Spots were starting to dance in front of his eyes._

 _Tex gave the universal tap out to signal he was good with that._

 _Antonio immediately released him and moved back over to where Rico was standing._

 _He stared after the Spaniard. No checking him over for injury? No scolding? No...nothing?_

 _He waited to be accosted by Al and Matt's family but...nothing…_

 _The silence was kinda worse._

 _He stood there awkwardly for a few moments._

 _Northern Ireland approached him with a vibe that screamed confrontation and he slipped into a ready stance, but at the last minute Reilley gave a sideways glance to the right and halted._

 _Tex cautiously looked over and found Spain staring the redhead down._

 _The Irishman swore something in Gaelic under his breath and spat on the ground before moving back to where the rest of his relatives were gathered._

 _So…_

 _Shit._

 _That was...that was...just...embarrassing._

 _He looked over to Spain whose dark green eyes met his stonily._

 _Tex couldn't hold the gaze but he did manage to force out: "How'd you do that?"_

 _Antonio ran a hand through his hair and gave an annoyed look that reminded Tex of his childhood._

" _How'd you get me so fast?" Tex asked._

" _You think I don't know how to fight with an opponent who is strong?"_

 _It was a backhanded compliment. Unnecessary. Nothing he didn't already know. Hell yeah, he was strong._

 _And yet._

" _Ya did it so easy." That was it. There'd been an ease to it that left his pride smarting._

" _I've been in many fights."_

" _Well, so have I!" he blurted. He was pretty sure he'd been fighting his whole life and he said so._

" _You think you have fought as much as me?"_

 _And then Spain laughed. And it wasn't in that silly patronizingly affectionate way that he'd been doing for the better part of the year. No. El Reino de España was laughing at him._

 _No need to stick around for that. He turned and got the hell away._

" _Was that always part of the plan?" Rico asked quietly as he trailed behind. "Try and prove to Papi you're tougher than him? Beat him at his own game?"_

 _What had seemed like a reasonable course of action and life's ambition at 14 after staring at Spain's back as he up and left...sounded really stupid out loud._

" _...leave me alone."_

"You okay?" Al asked.

Stupidest life goal meet stupidest question.

Tex gave him a very dark bespectacled glare.

Canada was wheezing in the background (and had he really never had the wind knocked out of him before? Maybe he should swap out the skates for cleats and try playing quarterback for a change?) and the U.K. brigade was still fussing over him and Spain and Rico were packing up supplies from their tent and pretending Tex didn't exist and...oh yeah! Tex had just made a colossal ass of himself in front of ab-so-lutely everybody!

And Hawaii was probably calling Alaska and Stuart.

Hell, ol' Snobby probably had the whole thing on tape. And the Irish one would make a rude limerick. And Scotland would cease training him. And England would hate his guts even more and sue his ass somehow!

And then he was gonna get a talking-to from his senators and the prez and Congress-

Still, he felt something uncoil in him at Al's expression.

There was no anger or judgment or anything hard there.

"Where?" Al asked.

"Hand."

His little brother took it gently in his. Yeah. It was busted all to hell. Canada's jaw was harder than it looked. Stupid North American Cordillera! And having his right hand out of commission was what had made it impossible to fight Spain off without drawing attention to it or worsening it.

Naturally, he was gonna play it off that Spain had caught him off guard and, like, 'the rage' had made it hard to concentrate and escape.

Cuz it was one thing to be the victorious jerkass of the hour, it was another to be the dumbass victim of his own bad choices. He couldn't even blame beer for this.

"Sorry, dude."

"Whaddyou care? Leavin' me all by my lonesome last night. Everybody out there mad at me and me...in there...all by myself and it's hard fallin' asleep without y-"

"Oh context," Hawaii snorted as she leaned on a tree near them. "This is why some people used to make assumptions before realizing you two were related-"

"We totally look related." Alfred's cheeks puffed. "Don't we, Tex?"

"Yup." It was a good thing he didn't do confession anymore. He'd keep a Father in that cabinet for years if he racked his brain for every little lie let alone the big stuff.

He twisted the fingers of his good hand in the rosary around his neck. Why'd Papi have to give this back?

"Riiight."

"Hey, respect the Bromance, Ms. Judgy McJudgerson."

She shrugged a shoulder.

"It wasn't weird in the 1800s!" Tex snapped. Folks were always dying then—made friendships more special—never knew when someone was gonna catch dysentery or diphtheria or get bit by a snake and keel over.

 _Oregon Trail_ got that right.

"Nice going with that." Hawaii gestured to where Canada was being tended. "Real macho."

He barely felt the sting in his hand over that direct hit.

Alfred reached for the injured hand, inspecting it while Hawaii left to grab a backup First Aid kit since the other was already in use.

"Sorry, Dude, 'bout last night. He said 'storytime' and I was so down for that. I jumped ship. It was just...you're good at anecdotes, you're like the best I know at that but...but Dad's got magic old timey ballads like...I mean, if you tried...well, you'd narrate like a chainsaw when it should be like a flute."

Tex sighed.

It made sense. Al was always kinda flighty and flippant. He was fundamentally unapologetic and uncompromising. Centuries ago those qualities had left Tejas in awe.

And Al's own airy unpredictability had lent him a talent for weathering Tex's tornado temperament.

It usually worked swell for them. And they'd wind up wherever the whirlwind dumped them.

But there were too many people here now. And they were so goddamned fragile compared to them. Collateral damage was unavoidable.

He wasn't good at settling down once he got going...once he got worked up.

He needed a rock to anchor him down and he couldn't find one. Maybe Hawaii _should_ call Alaska. He was so calm—he could leech the chaos out of any tense room.

Tex couldn't stop the trapped feeling from taking hold. It made him ornery and cornered and crazy.

"I'm scared…" Tex admitted softly. "I know what I said...and I meant it but..."

Alfred stilled and tried to force a smile. It was more because other people could be watching them from afar than an attempt at shallow face-value assurance; Alfred knew better than to play games like that with him.

He was just buying them a few more minutes of privacy. De-escalation.

Tex bowed his head. "...I don't wanna lose you…to them."

"..."

Cuz that's what it all came down to. And he was ready and raring to fight tooth and nail. He couldn't be shut out, turned away, left behind…

He wouldn't lie down for that.

"I don't wanna lose everything," he confessed with a desperation he hadn't felt since he was a stupid little sixteen-year-old waking up to the fact that he was honest-to-God on his own.

And it was fucking terrifying.

And there was nothing for it but to pick a direction.

And the direction he chose...led...

His adrenaline waned and his hand began to throb.

"I don't know about 'everything.' But you couldn't lose me if you tried," Al replied. "Heck, you already did in the 1860s. Me and my government didn't go for it."

Tex frowned. "Did this seem like a good time for that potshot?"

"Whelllp, it just 'is what it is,' my favorite fellow ' _deserter_ ,'" he chuckled. "But for realz...you'll never shake me loose."

Tex managed a weak smile.

"You'll never be rid of me," Al vowed.

"Ditto that, Pilgrim-pants."

Alfred observed Tex's injury once more.

And then it happened—an unholy gleam of excitement signalled that his brother was visited by an idea blazing with brilliance and it was gonna engulf everything in its path.

"I remembered something, just now," he relayed in a hushed breathy rush. "Magic I used to do for girdled trees and then I learnt how to do it for me. And now you."

Tex nodded cautiously.

"It'll hurt like hell though," his brother mentioned casually.

He wasn't quite asking for permission. That just wasn't Al's style.

But it was a heads-up.

More than what most people got from him.

Tex shrugged. "Well, how convenient. I'm already in Hell."

Not sure he ever really left, honestly.

But as long as Al was with him...he could bear it.

God...though...

What he wouldn't give for a cigarette to take the edge off.

* * *

America ignored the rest of the group as they broke down the camp site around them.

As far as he was concerned, Canada had kinda asked for it and Tex just...delivered. Pony Express, man. America wasn't the only ornery orphan who ended up applying.

His bro was too tough to be taken lightly.

Maybe this would send that home?

It had shocked him for a while now, how they had all treated his brother, like they could get away with provoking him time and again, but then Tex had been sandbagging for a while now.

He was a dangerous dude to tick off. That temper...

Canada always depended on America pulling his punches whenever they clashed and the spectre of England's disapproval always guaranteed that America wouldn't pass the point of no return.

Tex wasn't roped into all that.

While a bit exasperated by the turn of events, he couldn't bring himself to even be vexed with his Southwestern brother.

He'd been in too-tight of a spot—he'd had to make room. He was a bull in a china shop. And the only reason he was in it at all was because Alfred hadn't managed the playing field right.

Nope. This was on him. Alfred had gotten tangled up in the family drama of being a prodigal son and nephew and brother, he'd slacked off in his role as a brother-in-arms and partner-in-crime and co-captain.

Tex was still dutifully adhering to Plan A. Alfred had left him there holding the line.

It was his fault. He couldn't make up his mind on what he wanted. He couldn't be everything everyone needed. Not at the same time. He wasn't enough.

That despairing 'I'm all out of moves' expression of 'we're about to lose big' on Tex's face was too familiar. He'd memorized it from bad nights at gambling houses, when Tex would turn to him with a " _well shit, that was our last dollar_ " and usually mouthed 'run' cuz they couldn't pay the bill.

Still, there was something new in it.

Something raw that jogged his memory.

And he was reminded of the War of 1812, pulling Rhys's knife from his shoulder, licking his wounds in the newly constructed Kirkland Hall.

He'd sat on the floor of the music room, part outraged, part vindicated, morbidly fascinated, and wholly horrified at his own circumstances. Helpless. Hopeless...as all his worst fears came true.

 _His stomach kept flopping as the feeling of falling never ceased. He focused on his breathing to achieve a false, enforced sense of calm as what little magic he had at his disposal was employed to knit the muscle, fractured collar bone, and skin._

 _There would be no happy endings here._

 _His family was turning on him._

 _There were no safe places anymore._

 _Nothing was sacred._

 _Harris was right._

It was a terrible memory. Painful. Awful.

Helpful.

Valuable because it could aid Texas now.

He had to give credit where credit was due.

Tex was tough. His mouth twitched a bit but he didn't cry out as the bones in his hands were abruptly reset—simultaneously.

The snapping sounds were the only proof that something supernatural was going on at their end of the campsite.

And nobody knew but them. And that gave him a weird bubbly feeling of accomplishment.

The rest were so busy, trying to give them the cold shoulder, they didn't even realize what was going on under their noses.

"Do you think we should take Mathieu for emergency treatment?" Rhys asked with palpable concern...a feat considering his usual flat tones.

"Ack, he's fine."

"Hardly, he was brutally assaulted," Arthur asserted.

"I-I'm alright," Mathieu assured. "I think the cold pack is helping. I'll be fine."

"He took one on the chin alright, but his jaw ain't broke. He's fine," Alistair insisted and then started in on Mathieu. "And don't think you're gettin' off with just bruises. I'm keepin' you on the hook, laddie. You were the one who started that fight. Shame. Hardly a square go. You hit him first and without a warning! Tha's bad form."

Alfred stared at the unexpected Scottish source of support.

"He's my favorite," Tex announced in Alfred's ear. "If you wanna tell _**him**_ our plan, he can stay. Got my vote. The rest gotta go."

Alfred kept that in mind as he sealed sinew and skin. Once done, Tex flexed his hand.

"Damn, that is something. Wish you could've remembered that trick sooner."

Trick…

At first he felt an absurd welling of indignation at such a talent being labeled a trick but…

Why?

Tips and tricks…

He prided himself on being filled to the brim with tips and tricks…

Anything that got one ahead.

"Me too."

Even if it wasn't especially heroic.

Harris complained that if he remained too sentimental, he'd value everything and nothing and no one would appoint leadership roles to him. Because he couldn't prioritize.

And if he couldn't prioritize, he couldn't be trusted.

Didn't he want to be shaped into something great and worthy? Someone of importance?

Harris only wanted what was best for him...for everyone's sake.

* * *

Alfred watched from between branches in a strategically placed tree.

From the way Arthur was rubbing the bridge of his nose, he had a headache coming on which boded ill for Alfred trying to reason with him over why they couldn't be sensible and just leave.

Alfred had to admit everything was happening way faster than he expected; Spain and Puerto Rico were moving out equipment in record speed.

Which flustered his uncles, particularly Alistair, because he didn't like being a deadweight and Rhys, because he didn't like the way the two were organizing the supplies.

England seemed put out that his foot garnered him a light roster and his job was to sort out map routes while his brothers trekked back and forth from the site to the vans.

Despite volunteering to carry various things, Arthur was told in no uncertain terms to sit it out or rather, "sit his arse down out of the way or have it booted out of their way." He was too delicate to participate, like one of those injured damsels from a 1950's horror film, according to Reilley.

That really got Arthur's goat, but the old man did concede in sitting down in the last chair left by the dying fire.

"I'm sorry, Rhys. You went to a lot of trouble." Arthur waved a hand at the fancy tent and sighed.

Rhys gave him a baffled look. "It's unsafe here. The sooner we leave the better. I've already called the agency to take it down."

"What sort of fae do yeh think it was?" Reilley called over as he collected up cooking supplies.

"They were Unseelies-"

"American or British?"

That gave them a cause for pause.

"They...had to be American, right?" Arthur asked Rhys.

"But I thought only the British ones were fans?"Alistair raised an eyebrow. "How'd they know 'Brenhin?'"

"Yes. How would they know the UnSeelie King's dictates?" Arthur murmured at Rhys.

"Fire sending, perhaps?"

"Or the post," Reilley volunteered.

Both Dad and Uncle Rhys's eyebrows twitched at that.

It was just...such an unmagical means of communication. It looked like they couldn't quite accept it.

Tch. Alfred's eyebrow twitched. Proof they'd never been mailmen. It was highly exciting if one did it right!

Still, it did amuse Alfred to think the UnSeelies were probably emailing and snapchatting by this point in the new millennium. They knew how cameras worked if Scotland's mention of a creepy America-shrine was accurate.

He watched his uncles leave for another trek to the vans. In their absence, Arthur rubbed down his injured ankle and winced.

It gave Alfred an idea that was so crazy it was miraculous.

He floated down from the tree to where Tex was waiting in virtual exile by his crappy, duct-taped tent.

"Hold tight, I wanna try something first with Dad."

"..."

"If I can show him that I can just...heal up any injuries we get, maybe I can convince him that there's nothing to fear about you and me staying?"

"So we ARE staying. I mean, I knew _I_ was. Cuz there ain't no way I'm gettin' in close quarters after that shit show. Even if your relatives don't get me, Spain will. I can feel it. I'll take my chances hitchhiking with a bunch of witches on my tail. Safer."

"I thought you weren't scared of getting the horns?"

"Yeah, well, dammit, that toro's still fast. ' _Gotta be able to cross that field in 9 seconds, because the bull can do it in 10_.'"

"Fair enough."

"I don't get it, Al. Let's just slip out now. I always kinda thought we were gonna have to leave Hawaii behind but...them's the breaks. She ain't the cross-country running type. And if we get a good gallop going-"

"I just...I don't want everybody and their grandma, 'specially cuz my dead gram gram is super mean, to be butthurt over it." Cuz he didn't really see any circumstance where Arthur would cheerily wave goodbye from the van as he left a seven-year-old Alfred in a creepy, witch-infested, UnSeelie-dominated dark forest. Maybe he'd leave Tex but not him.

But if he could convince him that they were equipped for this adventure through playing up his aspects as a magical healer via _Dungeons & Dragons_ speak. It introduced it to the realm of possibility. There'd be no cheery wave of course but maybe a hand on the shoulder and a warning to call the moment things went out of his depth.

"If you fail?"

"I want you to wait with a raft ready. Give me twenty minutes and then start heading for the river. I'll catch you up."

"Al…"

"I will catch up to you. No matter how it goes."

Tex wavered, rocked on his heels twice, and then nodded.

Alfred released a long, slow breath and tried to psyche himself up. It could work. It could. Best case scenario. Come on, best case scenario. _Lady Luck, you know I'm due,_ he thought.

His dad was sitting and staring moodily into the embers. Not the best sign.

Had to pull out all the stops. Butter him up.

"Daddy?"

Arthur looked up.

"Daddy, can I talk to you? Pleeeease?"

"Oho? Playing messenger? He's not a leper. Texas can talk to me himself. I don't mind being mediator for him and Mathieu, but I won't accept this. You're no carrier pigeon. He doesn't have to wait all the way over—where is he? It isn't safe for us to be spread too far apart."

"..."

Arthur hesitated on whether to stand. "Where-"

"He's okay!" Al insisted. He was surprised. Dad being concerned about Tex at all in light of all that happened was definitely a step in the right direction. It kinda came out of left field. And he wondered if his original idea was a good one or not.

"Is he helping Spain by the vans?"

A well-timed white lie couldn't hurt.

"I think so."

Arthur sighed in relief.

Alfred fidgeted. "Look. I just...I wanna show you something I can do. I...I remembered how."

Arthur indulged him and beckoned him closer, setting an arm around him and drawing him in.

"Are your feet alright?"

It felt a bit unfair how easily he was brought back into the fold while his brother was on everybody's shitlist; and the biggest reason he was there...was out of loyalty to him.

"What did you want to show me, love?"

He had to something big, something grand for both of their sakes to wipe their slates clean.

"Something so...you don't have to be scared anymore. No one does."

The Briton looked perplexed. "Alfie? I...I'm not...love, I'm not scared. I'm concerned. It's…" His eyes widened with insight and his voice went almost sickeningly sweet. "It's alright for you to be frightened, though...though I promise I won't let anything befall you, sweet. Here, you're welcome to confide in m-"

"I'm not."

And it was a weird thing. Maybe he was arrogant like everybody said, but he wasn't scared of the fae, or the witches, or even the bad thing in the ground his feet kept warning him about.

He rested into the embrace and released a steadying breath. He reached out with his magic—taking inspiration from trees and searching without vision.

Lifetimes ago, he'd loved to do magic. It was something he could do by foot, and hand, and will. He didn't need to know how to read or the rituals that Osha and others kept secret from him or the things Arthur and his brothers locked away in their cupboards and basements. He just needed to watch, listen, guess, try.

And he was always game to try.

He'd failed too often to be afraid.

He didn't have any spells. Or words. No one had taught him how.

He learned because he did. Trial and error in the gasping spaces after a bad fall or a sharp rock. He remembered those now.

There was nothing special in it. Nothing but will.

But it was enough.

"Alfie?"

Determination had always been the only thing that made him special.

He leaned against Arthur who jolted with sudden insight as the magic crept where he willed it.

"No, Alfred. Let it be."

No.

It wasn't in him. And while Arthur's grip on him tightened, it became clear that...it wouldn't escalate further. It was almost like his father was scared of hurting him. Which was kinda funny...because sprains and breaks weren't things that could.

"Stop!" Arthur hissed.

Not when he could prove himself in one go as to why Arthur didn't have to worry about their mission. Any mission ever again!

Because this was a game-changing skill. And wouldn't he be impressed if he could just sit through the unhappy part now? He wanted to share it with him. That was an honor. He usually didn't share things he just learned how to do with anyone because they'd score him on it. Nobody except those he held closest.

"No!"

Tex trusted him, why couldn't he?

"STOP."

The hex was tricky because it was way down deep and tangled. Tangled because it didn't want to let the bone set like it should—like roots disrupting pavement.

Something had to be done.

Alfred was a gardener; he could weed out what didn't belong.

Memories that weren't his spilled out as well while he worked and faces and battles and shame he hadn't known flickered and grew until they hit a crescendo of agony.

Pain magnified across their bond on a plethora of levels. But pain was never something that really fazed America.

And he didn't understand the embarrassment. Why knowing was such a big deal.

Like Alfred was never s'posed to know about it. O his father could talk and edit what he wanted to share about that Crusades injury, but Alfred wasn't supposed to know it like this. Wasn't supposed to feel like he'd been there standing over them and their puddle himself.

Wasn't supposed to know that father had been...in his mind at least...lesser and common...uneducated...brash and young...

His father's thoughts labeled the whole thing "disgrace" and he seemed to think it mattered.

Or that it should matter to Alfred also.

Alfred tried to show it didn't by sharing memories of his own—standing in a public square in Massachusetts with a sign around his neck. The first time, he couldn't read it beyond identifying its 9 letters and he was too ignorant to understand how it applied to him. Sad, huh? He was so stupid then. The second time, he'd known what the word hanging from him meant and wept. How weak and cowardly, right? On the third, he displayed it proudly for it summed him up well and doing so unsettled them that put him there.

INSOLENCE.

But Arthur wasn't comforted by his triumph.

Disgrace was something more to him. Something incurable.

The hex certainly seemed to agree. It was severe, pitiless, and over-righteous. But maybe that was because it thought like a sword and all the world was narrow and straight to such an instrument.

It didn't know what the hell to make of America. But that wasn't a new thing.

No, the only real surprise was that it turned out that Arthur was NOT as conservative as Tex when it came to expressing suffering.

And it reverberated not just in his head psychically but outloud and startled birds into the air.

Admittedly, Alfred had been more invasive this time around. Had to dig deeper.

He had to! But he was sorry the discomfort was necessary.

Hands wrenched him away.

"What are you doing?!"

"The hell did you do?!"

"Artie?"

"Albion? Answer."

His uncles were panicking and cursing in words he didn't understand.

He wasn't finished helping Father but they roughly pulled and shoved him back until the seams of his jacket gave.

They checked Arthur and swore anew.

He backed away until he was under the cover of the trees.

He could've sealed those up...but they weren't going to allow him near again.

"Staunch it! Quick!"

"Dammit, I already took the kit to the-"

"Fetch it-"

Alfred let the slippery gooey handfuls of hex fall to the forest floor and he crushed it underfoot where it dissipated in a dark but harmless stain. Maybe what he'd done wasn't fancy but it had worked for the UnSeelie King and it worked for America too.

He might have to write a letter of thanks. Because it did seem kinda rough now to do something of magnitude and for there to be no accolades.

No smiles.

No demands for explanations.

No gentle hands for him.

He looked down at his ruined jacket.

They didn't understand.

He'd helped Father. Did what _he_ couldn't. What _they_ couldn't. For centuries.

But they didn't care.

Maybe he'd been lying to himself the whole time.

He would _never_ regain their trust…

He'd never had it.

Harris was right about that too.

He'd always be different, apart, away.

He turned and forced himself onward to meet up with Tex.

If nothing else, all of that would keep them busy.

It hurt though...

He was still stupid.

He was just a stupid person who could read well and do more, so the stupid stuff he did was on a grander scale than when he'd been little.

Though...he had a wriggling doubt that such a declaration didn't ring exactly true…

He sniffled.

He just thought Arthur would finally be impressed—grateful that Alfred could do something for him that would really make a difference in his life...the good kind. And he could be confident whenever his son went his own way, that all would be well.

So much for that.

At least he had towelettes, safety pins, and a Tide Stain Remover in his pockets; he set himself to work.

He'd traveled a good distance and made some real progress on his jacket before the sound of twigs breaking prompted him to turn around.

A battered but furious Canada stalked toward him, his usual soft voice had gone hard with near-hysteria.

"Are you freaking possessed? Dammit Al, what's wrong with you two?! Are you psychopaths?! Why would you hurt him?!"

He put two and two together fast or maybe their relatives explained it with a simple "Al did it" but the motive for doing so wasn't present.

That was uncharitable of them.

"I saved him," he clarified. Sure it was from something a long time ago, but it should still count. He was the hero. The best could succeed at impossible things.

Canada disagreed.

He shook with barely restrained contempt. "What more do you want from him?! You want to hurt him? You actually want him to suffer? What more could you take from him? You have his mantle, _Superpower_. You have all the guns and glory and pride to choke a-"

"...shut up…"

"You have everything!" Mathieu insisted as he knelt down in front of Alfred and gripped him by the shoulders. He looked down and took in the mess of him and came undone. "Why?! Why would you _**hurt**_ him?! Tell me!"

"..."

"You have all of his affection!" Mathieu all but spat. "All of it! And even still that's not enough for you?!"

"No." Blue eyes narrowed to slits and in a deadly whisper that seemed loud because of the venom in it...because Mathieu was such a stupid smart person who never got what was obvious. And that was unforgivable.

"Not when you have all of his respect."

* * *

España listlessly folded up camping chairs and arranged them into the van as best he could—knowing Rhys would probably re-do it anyway. He tried to participate in small talk.

He knew he was repeating himself but Momilani was too kind to criticize him for it. He kept remarking on his amazement that they'd been allotted so much space and was surprised the grounds had allowed a campfire for cooking rather than imposing the use of camp stoves.

But he was at a loss of what else he could say that was still pleasant.

"PAPI! Papi! Papi!" Rico rushed over to him with worry in his eyes and tugged at his sleeve with an urgency España hadn't seen from him since the 1600s.

"Pa-"

He cupped the boy's face. "¿Qué pasa? Dime, mijo."

"He left his hat!" Rico blurted. "And he ran that way with a raft."

He gently took the suede cowboy hat from Rico's shaking hands. It had fallen off during the fight but…

Antonio frowned. Tejas hadn't reclaimed it in the time since?

Odd.

And he left with a raft?

Odder still.

He could not pretend to understand his young son's thought process sometimes. Maybe he needed fishing to help him...relax?

He put an arm around Rico to comfort him.

It was hard being a father of so many.

It was a challenge of knowing when to hold on and when to let go. And don't get him started on how hard it was keeping track of who liked what and who didn't like it anymore and then who didn't before but now they do and ' _Papi, why didn't you know_?!' And then who was supposedly his "favorito" at any given time!

¡Dios mío! That one always drove him loco.

He stared down at the hat. Tejas was grown enough to choose his adventures.

But…

He thought of wood and foam gravestones depicting all the times his son had chosen wrong, had placed his faith in, or perhaps stuck his courage on precarious foundations.

There was a forced cheerfulness in those rhyming inscriptions; one he knew too well.

It had hurt to recognize it.

Rico pulled him in the direction of their wayward relative. "Papi, something is up."

España sighed.

Rico got more nervous.

España tried to smile for his son's sake and grimaced.

He'd tried to be cheerful when Rome came and claimed himself and Portugal as slaves for his empire.

He had smiled because he didn't want their mother's last memories of him to be of his anguish. Dios, the terror he felt in being dragged from their home—being too small and young and weak to do anything about it.

His brother had smiled as well, for her, as the soldiers marched them away. He endured. Portus Cale was good at that.

Maybe it was because Tonito was a crier from the start that Antonio had been confused with how to handle him. Tejas never understood how terrible tears were. How unnecessary his had been because España would always provide for him to the best of his abilities. He'd made Azura promise to care for her hermanito as she ascended to power.

That land was Tejas's. She could not hurt him. Antonio still had allies there, they would tell him and he would return. She had to have him clothed, fed, educated, and raised as a gentleman. A gentleman because Antonio wouldn't forgive her if she put him in the military.

No, his Tejas could be a diplomat and then España could see him regularly again.

O his little Tejas. He never understood how his timidity, his helplessness, haunted his fatherland and made him nervous for him. And he cried too damn much. Not out of frustration, the way Lovi did. But something more desperate. It always put Antonio on edge.

If España was scary in his strength, Tejas was terrifying in his delicacy.

He hated it when he cried.

His hijo didn't ever need to cry to get his attention or sympathy the way that—that—

 _It was hard to dismiss the sound of crying from doorsteps—a chorus of scratchy, raspy mewls like kittens._

 _He loved babies with their soft, chubby skin and their big dark eyes. It was instinct to make funny faces and coo and pet their wrinkly wrists with his small but sturdy, careful fingers._

 _His brother always told him not to do it. Not to remember them._

 _The smart one. His hermano. Very practical._

 _A pity that he seldom listened._

 _It took Rome accompanying him at dusk to learn what his brother knew._

 _He'd been taken by complete surprise that the Empire in all his lordly state would follow him in from the fields._

 _He'd felt strangely honored that someone so powerful should visit with him. When he said as much, Rome mentioned that guards Hispania knew and joked with spoke of him often. They liked his courage. His willingness to kill snakes and other pests._

 _Thought he'd make a fine soldier for the legion someday._

 _Rome said that was what he was there to determine._

 _The Empire was a funny man. He knew many jokes and told them and laughed with his listener as they laughed._

 _Probably for the sound._

 _Because he didn't like being as alone as he was and the sound of voices mingling in mirth was good._

 _España was too young then to understand that. But he'd known the man was odd._

 _The two of them strolling through narrow, rancid-smelling slums so close together amused the younger. There was some degree of relation between them. The shade of hair? Maybe? Not the texture. Or maybe it was the skin?_

 _Young España was very tan from all the sunshine and his duties out of doors. He came to know it as a distinction of slavery._

 _It pleased him to find Rome equally tan from all his battles._

 _But while he knew their stations were far apart, he didn't comprehend the ceremony he was meant to uphold; that a slave was meant to attend his lord when they were in his presence. That Rome was supposed to be treated like the Sun of his sky._

 _He hadn't given a thought about abandoning Rome and rushing over to where an infant lay whimpering._

 _Rome leaned against the crude concrete of the insula. "Why do you come over, Hispania? You have nothing to offer him? Her?"_

 _Hispania looked up, confused. Even then, he'd thought the leaving out of babes was some kind of ritual. Fresh air for their health or for a god or goddesses' blessing? Maybe Matribus Gallaicis or Juno or whoever ruled over this spot?_

" _You cannot adopt. And even if you could, it would interfere with your duties to me and they're too young to help. They'd only be a burden."_

 _He stared._

 _Rome looked annoyed that he had to explain it all for him._

 _But it was better that it was him._

 _And he understood why his hermano wouldn't do it._

 _Because the telling couldn't be taken back._

 _Couldn't be forgiven._

 _Rome continued and España learned it was the patriarch who decided their fate…chose who got to be in the family and who was left to…_

 _The supposed "lucky" ones went on to be adopted into households, usually as slaves._

 _The rest…_

 _The rest were left…_

 _All households?_

 _All were like this? In this "great" empire?_

 _At the head of each house, every patriarch made decisions such as these?_

 _He asked even when he knew the answer already._

" _Even you, mea imperator?"_

 _It was too bold to think, but he went and he said it. And later when he'd tell his brother about it, Afonso would remark that he was an impressive kind of stupid; "a glorious idiota."_

" _It is hard to be the Patriarch," Rome returned evenly, not breaking eye contact._

 _Even of his own flesh…he'd select from among his heirs and let the rest..._

" _-smile," Rome ordered. "You should smile, Hispania. Go on, now. It pleases me and it makes you look friendly when you do. Smile for me? Be friendly?"_

"… _we're not friends."_

 _It was the greatest satisfaction to know that a personification as young and lowly as him…could make an Empire flinch._

España let out a weary sigh and searched the woods for a sign of his child. The trees were lessening and the sound of water grew. "¿Dónde estás mi hijo?" he softly questioned.

"-look, I'm sorry things had to go down that way, Al. I am. But if he was stupid enough to cross both of us in one day...it must be a full moon or something. We'll send 'em all fruit baskets, kay? Now, get to gettin' and quick so we won't have to Houdini this."

There he was, hatless and restless. "Text Hawaii, Al, maybe she can give us a screenshot of it."

They were startled as España and Puerto Rico ambled out from the wilderness.

Tejas gaped at them for a full minute before announcing belligerently, "We...are going rafting! R-right now. Don't try and stop us cuz it's happening. We...uh...we need this."

It was almost funny.

So many years spent being unsettled by how easily the child was cowed by his father and siblings. España always had to step in and come to his rescue. Then when his son was annexed and vanished from the World Stage, Antonio grieved and lamented and blamed it on Tejas's lack of nerve…

Certain that if he'd had more of it, he'd have been able to resist America.

The joke was on Antonio. His child had plenty.

And it _**would**_ present itself now when he had no patience or good humor for it.

Tejas drew himself up to his full height; he was taller than his father and he wanted it acknowledged.

Antonio could almost hear Turquía mocking him over his height.

And then his hijo had the audacity to try and look down on him, like being tall made him less of a child.

"You can tell the others-"

Antonio ignored him and helped Rico get into the raft with Alfred and then began launching it into the water. He was surprised to see Reilley appear on the other side of the raft.

When had he shown up?

Tejas clumsily splashed through the water to keep up.

Tonto.

España had centuries of practice with such things.

He moved into the vessel easily, as did the irlandés, and he reached a hand to pull his errant child in.

Tejas blinked up at him and watched him as he took a seat beside Rico. "We…uh-Al?"

"You are rafting," Antonio stated. "That is fine. We are rafting too."

"…m-muy bien..." Tejas mumbled without enthusiasm.

Rico sighed and Antonio felt a little guilty for dragging his elder son into this. He should've given him the option of sitting this out.

It was only going to get more uncomfortable, but the sooner it was out, the sooner preparations could be made. Antonio was a man of action. He couldn't put things off.

And the water seemed pretty treacherous here right from the start. He needed to straighten his household and then see about finding a safe place for them to dock.

A hard splash soaked his sleeve. He had to get to it and quick.

"So, are we talking now? Who do I talk to? You or you? Hm?" He looked from America to Tejas. "It doesn't matter who as long as I am hearing answers. I know Tejas can be shy. I know America can be pushy. I know you both can switch like-like that chess move. Inglaterra was always good with that. The knight and the king or something. Right? So?"

"This really isn't the best time for this," Toni muttered. "Raincheck, Papi."

"Who am I talking to about this?"

"…"

"…"

"Okay, let us start. Who's idea to raft?" he demanded.

"…"

"S'kinduva a joint decision."

"You both wanted to raft in the dark?"

"This early in the morning?" Reilley raised a bushy eyebrow. "Hit and run? Yeh perform a nasty game of operation on Artie and-"

"What is this?" Antonio asked.

Reilley shook his head. "Ya know what? Let them answer first and then we'll fill you in after won't we, boys?"

"E-eyeah?" Tejas blurted. "K-kay. At the end. Got it."

España rolled his eyes. "Okey, I will pretend I believe you. Who actually wants to stay? Even though there are scary interlopers in the woods who are witches? Witches in the biblical, powerful, scary sense-"

"Mutual," Tejas supplied. "It's mutual, we ain't about to get pushed around by, uh, um-witchy people."

"Who is angry with me? And who is angry at Inglaterra?"

Both looked at each other and then him.

Antonio stared. "Is it both? It can be both. But it makes me worry. You share one brain?"

Tex glowered at him and insolently answered through his teeth in the nastiest tone he could manage: "Sí, Senor."

"He's gonna tan your hide," Rico stated knowingly as he struggled with his paddle.

Alfred shook his head gravely and looked at the swiftly passing landscape.

"Really? You two want to stay in this dangerous place? THIS is relaxing?"

"We're adventurers," Tejas stated. "We adventure. It's a lifestyle."

"I don't believe that. He is white as a sheet. And you're jumpy like a jackrabbit. That's not how I did my exploring. That's not how your father did his, Alfredo. We explored with confidence, preparation, and fascination. If we were made weary it was by the end because of what we'd faced, not at the beginning of an expedition…and we always welcomed more travelers with us to wherever we were heading. Why are you here? Why is this secret? What don't I know that I need to? And-"

"We need time alone. Without you. Or him." Tejas pointed to Rico. "To…get over all our uh, disappointments with…you guys."

"So I am a disappointment," España stated.

"Boot's on the other foot now, huh, cowboy!?" his child spat at him.

He frowned. "You were not a disappointment to me."

A challenge to be sure. And a constant source of worry. But not-

"Like Hell, I wasn't. You were always naggin' me. I never measured up. You always spent time with me last cuz you couldn't stand me."

It hurt because it was held up like truth.

"When I came over, I did always spend time with you last," he agreed.

Tejas nodded triumphantly.

"Because you were better behaved. You weren't as spirited as your brothers, I didn't need all my energy with you. I could say something, Mejico could say something, you would listen. I didn't have to chase you down. By the time I made it to your house…I was usually tired. Worn out. You were good at playing by yourself; you had the imagination for it. You didn't need Papi to entertain you, so I brought you toys. And I made time to rest. Then I'd take you for a ride into the Mercado for new clothes and boots. You minded me. Heeded most of my rules. At least the most important ones…I could do that with you. They were…were supposed to be treats. I was no fun. No good. I see that now. Sorry."

"…"

"What? I am agreeing with you. I wish you'd had a better childhood too! What? I do. I wish I could've given it to you. I do. If I could change it, I would. You'd have had the best of everything and the best of me. All of you. All of my niños. But I can't change it. I can't. Yo le pido disculpas a usted."

Puerto Rico swallowed thickly.

Antonio held in a sigh. Failure was hard on a father; it weakened one at the knees. Cut him off at his clay feet.

The rest of his children, give or take a few (Mejico and Peru were special cases), had always been surprisingly forgiving. Naturally, they did not condone all he and his people had done (how could they?) but there was still mercy in their criticisms.

It just seemed so monstrously unfair that his sweet butterfly catcher could have such a cruel iron grip on his heart now.

It would figure that Tejas, the one who was always different and difficult and dangerously the same where it mattered, would be the one that held him to the fire.

Were those the same mistrusting eyes that Rome had seen?

"I can only do things now. It is hard. Any object, any item, any _thing_ that I can give you…you don't need anymore. The way you talk, you worry about money but you have plenty. You don't need anything. All I have is me, my time… _ **me**_ …you do not need me. I think you make it clear that you do not want me either. Tell me this. Tell me this now. And I will not bother you anymore." He set the cowboy hat on his son's head and didn't let his hands linger though they longed to.

To lose this child again…

He returned to his spot and sat down heavily.

Wary brown eyes watched him the way they always did when he hovered at the edges of rooms like he was something fundamentally treacherous.

Antonio nodded to himself slowly.

He would need to accept that his heart would never be whole.

He had to stop reaching for this piece, no matter how precious it was.

"…"

Because if all he could ever do was cause his little one harm…

He sucked in a painful breath. "Tejas. Te amo. I want you to be happy. If you are only happy while I am away, I will _**never**_ bother you again."

It was a silence worse than death, more like damnation, and he couldn't bring himself to care about the rapids or man his oar as he should've.

But then he heard his son offer a very soft equally miserable: "Yeah...I'm sorry too."

And just as his heart lifted...their raft capsized.

* * *

Read & Review Please : D


	47. Chapter 47

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia, James Bond, or John Calvin's: " _Rejoicing refers to moderation of spirit when the mind keeps itself in calmness under adversity and does not give indulgence to grief."_ Or Benjamin Franklin's "...in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except **death and taxes**."

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, linguistically, and grammatically). Boxty: an Irish potato pancake, popular historically among the poor houses and work mills because it required only a few, cheap ingredients. Cold water shock can cause death. Rafting without proper equipment is VERY dangerous. Youghiogheny is a hard word to spell and to say for mortals like me. It's an Algonquian word meaning "Contrary Stream." Shakespearean fashion. RIP Greenwich Palace. British Slang "take the piss out of" someone—joke at or about someone, particularly at their expense, etc. Headcanon: America attends lots of medical innovations and operation theaters because heroes can save the day by knowing how to tend a victim or brother-in-arms. England being a history era snob. Child endangerment is a serious offense.

 **AN:** Hey all, thank you for your awesome reviews and enthusiasm! It's been so fun reading through them all and seeing the different angles and loyalties and I hope you continue enjoying the ride. This chap kept growing so I finally had to pick a spot and split it or I would've needed even more time to finish it (and it would've been as huge as the last one). Enjoy!

 **Chapter 47: Gonna Kill Him**

* * *

 _England sighed as he walked through the ornate gardens of Greenwich Palace._

 _The Palace of Placentia had been demolished years ago by Charles II so he knew at once he was dreaming._

 _There were plenty of good and bad memories he associated with the location as history had seen fit to fling moments of joy and horror haphazardly; births, stillborns, arrests..._

 _Shakespeare had performed for them here, was performing now in this half-memory but England had left in agitation—ignoring his monarch's calls for him to stay._

 _The fresh air should've calmed him. The symmetry of the hedges should have soothed him. The proximity to the Thames, and therefore the great and powerful presence of water, should've relaxed him._

 _They didn't._

 _He looked about for something to distract him from his distemper and saw tiny Roanoke curled up in the shade of a great tree. The babe was watching him with large mournful blue eyes._

 _The white gown was worn through and dirty—its hem was snagging along the roots of the oak he was nestled between._

 _England rushed over and removed his waistcoat to bundle the child up._

 _He cradled the toddler to his breast and made to enter the castle, intent on bringing him inside to warm him by a fire and see him fed. He'd probably need to swat away over-curious aristocrats and servants, but that would be easy enough. He wasn't known as a particularly pleasant fellow. Though his child was very pretty and that alone might induce otherwise sensible humans to linger and catch a glimpse of their nation's offspring._

 _Roanoke clutched at Arthur's jerkin with an anxious little hand—nails sharp and overgrown from neglect. Poor thing, Arthur would have to give them a trim or the baby could cut himself on them._

 _He cooed softly that all would be well soon and was just on the threshold when the toddler shook his head gravely and looked away._

" _I am unwelcome."_

Arthur woke with a great sense of ire, psychic pain, and general soreness. Damnation! Alfred was doing that-that _**THING**_ he hated—flattening their bond to a point where it felt monstrously like a death.

He felt all out of sorts and only semi-acknowledged that he was being carried by an grim-faced Scotland.

His brother set him down on the paper of a examining bed in some cheap 24-hour emergency room.

Rhys turned the lights on and mentioned something about a specialist being sent out to them as they spoke but that the staff was instructed to leave them largely to themselves. One doctor would be visiting to assess Arthur's condition and ensure he was stable until said "specialist" arrived.

"Wot?"

He didn't feel critically injured. Woozy maybe.

"Now, yeh stopped bleedin' but the doc's going to have a look at yeh," Alistair repeated solemnly.

Arthur noticed belatedly that his trousers were ragged and his legs were wrapped with towels. Was that a tourniquet?

"Gwalia and I did what we could, so yer life's not in danger but-"

Being a nation of strength and substance, his body was already regenerating, but his legs were terribly numb and he needed to know for himself the extent of his injuries.

Ignoring their cries of alarm, he broke the cord and pulled the bloodstained scraps off to reveal blood stained skin and several thin fading pink lines—where the skin had been expertly cut. The incisions had been made as minimal as possible.

But then Alfred had always been interested in amassing medical knowledge; all through the 1800s, he'd flocked to operating theaters—merry in spite of the macabre settings.

Arthur carefully traced the already sealed lines. Surgical precision. Knowledge of Langer's lines. A few careful prods revealed the muscles therein had been split rather than cut to speedup recovery and minimize damage and scarring.

It gave him a funny realization that Alfred had probably been more qualified to perform the operation he'd received last October than his relatives had been to give it.

He wasn't even going to need stitches. At this point, his body had already knitted the skin together itself.

A few rounds of healing spells would restore his energy levels and a nap or three would relax his sore muscles, and no one would know he'd suffered at all this day.

Arthur doubted he'd even have scars.

Well, physical ones.

Having his will forcibly ignored and going without any anesthetic was hardly what he'd call a jolly good morning.

"Alfred," he uttered darkly. "I think you and I need to have a discussion about what does and doesn't constitute as consent, young man."

Rhys fidgeted. "Arthur, I had no idea he would injure you. I'm sorry. He must've been bewitched some time between when we'd left the campsite and-"

"Bewitched?" Arthur raised an eyebrow. He'd been troubled, most assuredly, but not bewitched. He'd seemed to be under his own command, hadn't he? Though...he was...off… "He wasn't-"

"He did that of his own free will!?" Alistair was aghast.

Arthur bristled at the horror in their eyes.

Was it painful? Yes. Unnecessary? Definitely. Unforgivable? Hardly.

Maybe it was having a timeline full of treacheries that this event didn't merit too high on his list?

The child had remembered some magical healing technique he'd used long ago and, with the well-intentioned tyranny of a bullheaded tot, sprung it on him.

This wasn't even the first occasion; once, when Alfred had been adult-sized and their bomber was going down, the American had manhandled the Briton into a parachute and pushed him out before he could even contemplate offering another to go in his place, as he would regenerate. The whole affair had been rather dramatic and after forcing everyone off the plane, America had still managed to land it without significant damage to himself or the aircraft.

Remembering it still made Arthur angry—so much risk involved...the boy always took such reckless gambles...

"He did it so...so you wouldn't follow him?" Alistair hazarded a guess.

"Wot?" Arthur answered distractedly and scratched an ear.

His brain was quite fuzzy.

Had Alfred done this to him to slow him down? Put him out of commission?

That didn't sound right.

Pacing usually helped him think, he threw his legs over the side of the bed to stand.

"Do you think you should be at that?!"

"Barkin' mad-"

He stood staring as both brothers had a hand on him to steady him.

Unnecessary.

Completely...un...

For a moment, he simply stared at his bloodstained socks.

"It's...gone."

Having it gone almost felt like losing a piece of himself.

"Albion?"

"It's gone. The hex. Excalibur's..."

He tested himself—rotated his ankles, bent down and then straightened rapidly. No cracking of pained joints, no wincing as muscles protested around badly healing splinters of bone.

"Gone."

"He...he _healed_ you?" All the color drained from Rhys's face.

Alistair swore.

Arthur blinked owlishly and then rubbed his nose and then stretched his arms overhead. "And this, Alfie, is why we ask permission before we spellcast over someone and we let others know our plan before we act on it, particularly with experimental magic. Others tend to misunderstand and overreact and-"

It was too quiet.

He froze and look around. "Alfred?"

He wasn't hiding in a cabinet again?

"Aye, sooo…" Alistair began. "Bout that 'misunderstanding' here. I thought, and I wasn't alone mind you, I thought he was using some dark arts there. I mean, you were a prick a lot in the past...and vengeance here and now was a possibility or he was bein' bewitched or somemat. But you are our brother so we got yeh somewhere safe. That...er...that was the reasoning...we uh..."

The Englishman looked around again. No. He frowned and blinked rapidly.

"...there was so much blood. Arthur, you don't know how it looked-"

He was remembering something more.

He rubbed his forehead.

"-cut into you and you weren't resisting or awake or-"

Why hadn't he just stopped the child from operating on him?

At first, he'd been shocked and aggrieved that his son would want to cause him pain.

Then he'd been terrified to find that there were no boundaries between them and Alfred barged into his subconscious with all the subtlety of a rampaging buffalo but…

He rubbed his brow. Why hadn't he stopped the child? He'd fought the kneejerk instinct to force him away for fear he'd not manage his strength correctly. And if he'd accidentally broken those small arms or worse...he'd have never forgiven himself.

And then?

No boundaries.

He blinked.

Yes…

There'd been no boundaries.

 **NO** boundaries and he'd been concerned and abashed to find Alfred had no real regret for the pain he was causing.

Surely, he registered it?

The boy didn't.

Or rather, he did but it was...removed—settled in a place where it wouldn't distract him from what he was doing.

And Arthur realized in that moment that Alfred didn't have any boundaries either and he almost fell through the child even as he tried to back away (because he didn't have permission to be there).

Even in his effort to retreat back into himself, he was stupefied by that maelstrom that was his son—that blend of hopeful delight, steely determination, and ominous resignation.

He even recognized an almost casually familiar arrogance; Alfred believed his actions couldn't be wrong because HE was the one performing them.

Well, that had to be addressed (in himself and his child)

Funny how a child could act as a mirror for certain faults.

He groaned and put the heels of his hands to his eyes. Sharing that memory against his will…

God…

He'd never wanted to...

And then having Alfred shove one at him thinking all shame was equal and was better met head on with a mixture of acceptance and apathy rather than repentance and anguish.

It only caused him more pain. One, because Alfred dismissed Arthur's moral philosophies, lack of education, and nonexistent sophistication as a symptom of a bygone era and a matter of prioritization rather than a personal failing.

Two, he held them to wildly different standards, he openly mocked ignorance in himself reasoning that a representative of the Age of Enlightenment being unable to read fluently was inherently absurd and hilarious.

The fact that he'd been a _very_ young child wasn't even acknowledged. Almost as though, and Arthur hoped he was wrong, Alfred believed he was to be judged with the same set of rules _then_ as _now_. And he didn't seem to think he needed any slack in judgment...ever.

Being ruthlessly condemned for shortcomings whatever they were and whenever they happened…

Humiliation...suffering...was a cause for...

" _Rejoicing refers to moderation of spirit when the mind keeps itself in calmness under adversity and does not give indulgence to grief."_

And it had been a strange thing to know John Calvin's quote then...hadn't come from Arthur.

He shuddered at the emphasis the child put on "does not give indulgence to grief."

No "indulgence to grief"...

No time or room to suffer sorrow when it stung.

No pity to be had or harbored.

Like age, intelligence, and maturity barely factored into what should and shouldn't be expected of him. It seemed like America didn't think it mattered now since he went toe-to-toe with older nations and adult humans so why should it have mattered then?

Even when all the scales had been against him.

That bothered Arthur.

That strange sense that being clever invalidated his being a child. That great shrug that life was fundamentally unfair and cruel so being kicked when one was down was practically a guarantee, along with "death and taxes."

Still...

Just because something was unfair and commonplace didn't mean it was right.

And maybe he was a stickler for historical accuracy, but England would be swift to point out that Classicism was only beginning to influence Europe. The pursuit of knowledge was just gaining interest. That mattered because that memory of America's was soundly in the Jacobean era with a touch of Baroque. NOT the Age of Enlightenment where means and expectations of self-improvement abounded.

Education was hard to come by indeed for someone in the early 1600s with no connections or guardian and that Alfred had been learning what he could through various chance encounters with Puritans and traders in the far removed New World was nothing short of miraculous.

It also explained why he mastered the alphabet so easily when Arthur set out to instruct him; he'd already wanted to learn and had figured out a good portion on his own.

It also meant Arthur might've taken a bit too much credit as a brilliant tutor when his charge took to reading like a duck took to swimming.

For all his intellect and instinct though...America just...had a very weak grasp on how eras worked. Eras influenced THEM not the other way around. Though he'd only lived through a handful so that might've explained it.

England sighed and then there was the fact that his little one, again for all his brilliance, was still a child. He had an expansive vocabulary, goodness yes, he'd sensed it while floating through, but hadn't yet mastered the depths of each word in it.

Functioning off the bad advice of poor-quality thesauruses, his Alfred thought quite a few words were interchangeable, like "insolence."

He didn't understand all the nuances and shades of that word and why context mattered and that it couldn't be applied to him for all-time.

O he could act impertinent, that was for certain, but he wasn't the epitome of incivility and effrontery and he shuddered to think the child would eagerly list it as a character trait.

Alfred mistook insolence for a rude sort of stubborness...like gall...only, in truth, he veered more closely to audacity on a spectrum measuring reckless courage.

CONVICTION proved a far better word for his Alfred. And yes, it could be used for good or ill.

In fact, Alfred's conviction, that he was acting in the best interests of all he cared for, largely kept Arthur's temper in check.

Much of what he'd done was ill-founded, short-sighted, and foolish but…

Seen from his side...

Arthur could almost see why his son felt a secret mission to scope out Osha's information on the gate's location without informing anyone beyond Texas and Hawaii was necessary.

Almost.

"Alfred? Come here," he commanded. "We must talk, you and I."

No. That was a lie.

He could've almost understood it...if it had been aimed at some stranger, some distant acquaintance, or legal authority.

He had a very difficult time accepting that his child saw fit to deceive _him_ , though he did at least appreciate the struggle that Alfred had gone through; it seemed he'd been poised to tell Arthur several times about his real intentions but always reneged at the last moment.

What he couldn't fathom was why his child was reluctant to ally himself with his family? When they had knowledge, strength, wisdom, magic, and-and-and WERE FAMILY!

He'd wondered that on his initial discovery of the deception and because there'd been no clear distinguishing line of self between father and son, there were no pretences. No smiles and sugar-coating or distracting tangents or metaphors. The child answered instantaneously and succinctly for he was callously honest with himself: fear and guilt.

Afraid he was losing his edge, taking advantage of those near him, complicating things by overreaching, pitting facets of family against one another: Iroquois versus the U.K. versus Texas and the rest of "Team USA."

Well, that answer was clean-cut enough that Arthur could address it immediately.

The harder thing to understand was the effervescent guilt that floated lazily through Alfred's subconscious. It shimmered and distorted things like a heat wave. Having one "pop" prompted an almost giddy certainty that nothing was ever quite good enough.

But Alfred always had hope that he'd manage perfection...someday. Like that moment when he was certain he could help Arthur even whilst he was hurting him first.

And that was when Arthur put his finger on it.

What troubled him most about the whole thing: the dissociation Alfred was experiencing…

Like Alfred and his thoughts and his feelings and his memories were worlds apart and Arthur was just as far away despite his obvious proximity.

And he followed their bond down, down, down into that same frigid place he'd gone once before...when the child almost...in the forest when Osha was commanding him to-to...and he almost…

Arthur found the familiar flare of his own pain spiking…along with Alfred's.

And it startled him to FEEL with absolute confidence that there was indeed a "bad thing" in the ground, full of malice and dark ambition.

Alfred couldn't distinguish those traits though. He just didn't have millenia's worth of experience with fae. Couldn't pick up on it as easily.

He knew only that it was a "bad thing." That was all he could label it as. "A bad thing." " _ **The**_ bad thing."

"The bad thing in the woods...in the ground...that _**hurt**_ him...because it wanted something."

Alfred had gone to great lengths that no one felt it through him...had divorced the feeling from himself so neither Arthur or Rhys would pick up on it.

Even though _**it**_ stretched and wound itself through the woods to reach him and claw incessantly at his magic-imbued feet like carving knives.

But that private excruciating pain didn't faze Alfred because he was going to cure his father of his hex! And no pain from surgeon or patient was going to interfere!

And all the arrogance of hope and irrepressibility of love and desperation to prove himself, crowded out doubt and sensibility and pain and pressed those feelings deeper into that compartment of self Arthur was investigating.

No, nothing mattered as long as Alfred succeeded.

Arthur blew out a breath and stared at a container of cotton balls and tongue depressors.

It had to be a leyline. A special one designed by the Witch of the Woods specifically for Alfred...to harm him. The humanistic emotions Arthur sensed were likely vestiges of the witch's feelings. Sometimes magic took on qualities from the caster like thumbprints left on an object.

Again, he felt his temper rise because Alfred had unnecessarily risked himself by staying silent on the matter. They could've left immediately. No gate (promise to the UnSeelie King be damned) was worth crossing paths with some vengeful witch while they were woefully unprepared.

"We'll give him a call or a text. How 'bout now?" Alistair hastily inquired.

Arthur stared. "Wot?"

He was too busy checking every empty corner of the room. Because…because it seemed like...the only three in the room were...himself, Rhys, and Alistair.

And that couldn't be.

No.

Nonononononononono.

He ran his hands through his hair.

"Here, I'll dial and-"

"Wot? What? WHAT?! No. No. You're both taking the piss out of me." He laughed a bit unsteadily. "No. You couldn't be so stupid. You can't be."

Scotland shrugged and made a point not to look at him. Rhys sighed and closed his eyes.

"You're the freaking favorite uncle. You are a bloody empath." He was trying not to hyperventilate. "Alfred? Alfred! Alfred! I'm alright, Alfred. Come here. Please, come here. Alfie?!" he called to the open door and hallway. No small footsteps drew near. His heart was in his throat and he felt sure if he coughed, it'd flop onto the floor.

"Come here, baby! Daddy's alright. Just come here!"

Rhys took in a deep composing breath. "He is not here, Arthur. We...we separated you when it was clear he'd...done this to you. And we feared engaging him would be injurious to us as well."

Amazing how fast his fury could skyrocket.

He doubted there was a single occupant of the facility that didn't hear him as he roared, "You _**abandoned**_ my child in the FUCKING FOREST?!"

Alistair casually closed the room's door and held it as hospital staff rushed toward it and tried to force it open. "Ack, it does sound bad when you phrase it that way. Dunno if this'll make yeh feel any better...but...technically, we _also_ abandoned Eire."

"And Canada." Rhys shook his head slowly.

"Ack, shit, he's right! Off day. I mean, I haven't had any sleep so I'm...but you, Rhys, that one's on you."

Rhys frowned. "I like to believe that Reilley is using this as an opportunity to watch over them-"

"Don't yeh dare put all o' that faith on him. He can't be trusted to water my hedge-"

Arthur walked over to the window and forced it open.

 _No time like the present,_ he thought, _let's see how good a spell you did, Alfred._

He climbed through and lowered himself by the sill. He landed catlike thirty feet down—ignoring his brothers' cries of dismay from above.

God, he hadn't been able to do that in ages.

He tested his knees and smirked in spite of himself. _Watch out, Frog. You thought I was a force to reckon with in the Hundred Years' War?_

His brothers followed suit with Rhys depending a bit on a drain pipe for guidance.

It was a small joy to feel unlevel ground underfoot and know it couldn't harm him as he ran.

"Arthur! Wait for us!" Alistair barked. "Damn you, wait!"

It made him feel strangely young and light. Moving this way. Lacking the hex.

Alfred liked feeling weightless. There was joy for him in the air; Arthur sensed that whenever the child was in flight. Was that what Alfred had been hoping to give Arthur back?

His instinct and the time he'd spent...er...floating through the child's subconscious...said it had something to do with all of that and more...and freedom.

Alfred had a near-fatal attraction to freedom.

Arthur hopped over a bike rack more because he could than because he needed to.

It was easy to see the allure. Maybe it was because Arthur was older, he was more weary of its dangers. Though... Alfred knew from experience the pitfalls therein and loved it anyway.

The way Arthur loved the treacherous sea.

"I'm calling the embassy to clear up this debacle." Wales waved a hand at the modest hospital.

Arthur frowned and looked for the direction of the parking lot. "Call the Ranger! Alfred's in there alone. That's endangerment!"

Even if this sudden freedom worked to Alfred's advantage.

"We're heading right back," Alistair stated. "Do we really need to-"

"Call. The. Park. Rangers!"

Even if Alfred was a very capable individual of impressive talent and grit and skill.

"On it," Wales answered.

"Keys!" he ordered. Alistair tossed them to him.

Even if he prized freedom to absurd heights and would gladly take on a challenge for the bragging rights that he faced the witch of those woods alone and triumphed.

He'd settle for proving himself...for glory...and power…and all the accessories and mantels of manhood and empire.

Arthur unlocked the van and threw himself into the driver's seat.

Before the pain had grown too intense to stay focused, Arthur had asked the child pointblank what he wanted...in his heart of hearts. So Arthur could just finally fucking know what made the boy tick.

Love.

He wanted love.

He wanted to be loved...the way he loved freedom...the way _**he**_ loved...with complete abandon of all things sensible. With acknowledgment and acceptance of all the stark shortcomings and brutal realities—the best and worst and all the gray between and a dismissal of them. He didn't want to be loved piecemeal.

" _I want you to see me!"_

' _And love me…'_

 _"You…you have this..._ _ **other**_ _**me**_

 _that you think I'm_ _ **supposed**_ _to be in your head._

 _Yes, you do! You think if I did this or did that, or learned this or learned that!_

 _If I dress or act just so...I could be him. The me, that you wish was me._

 _And when I fail to live up to him, you punish me!_

 _And I'd rather have you_ _ **hate**_ _me,_

 _than say you love me_

 _when you love_ _ **him**_ _instead!"_

' _I want you to know me. Because then you can make an informed decision._ _You throw your "I love you's" so carelessly when you hardly even know me and what I can do. I want to show you. Because you can't really love me if you don't know me. And there's a real risk that knowing me...really..._ _ **really**_ _knowing me will kill what you feel...but I'll always hope…and want...and wish for it.'_

Arthur wished he could've held out a bit longer and just answered that back. But taking in two sources of agony proved too much and he'd blacked out.

Arthur had the car on and moving before Rhys's door shut.

He had to get back to his son and answer out loud. Maybe get Rhys to video it so the boy could have a record he couldn't twist or doubt.

Silly goose.

Like there was any uncertainty there. Like there could ever be. Ever.

And Arthur realized with a funny jolt.

He'd been talking to Spring; for whom all things were simple because he knew and remembered and understood everything—aware even despite being forced into dormancy.

That season wasn't missing or dead. He was just divorced from the other three and sleeping.

* * *

Rhys's fingers dug into the sides of his seat.

Arthur was using the windshield wipers to move the wreckage of a tollbooth gate.

"You...you...drove...through...I _**had**_ change..."

Alba tapped his shoulder with a box of TUMS which he gratefully accepted. The Scotsman nodded at their brother and shrugged a shoulder. "Little Al had to get that crazy from somewhere."

"I am NOT the mad one. What POSSESSED you to just...just LEAVE him there? How could you?! God…"

"We just...made you the priority," Rhys stated.

"..."

"It's what Mum wanted, alright?" Alistair growled. "She made us promise that we'd look out for your skinny arse no matter-"

Arthur passed a car from the left side and didn't flinch as the other driver laid into their horn. "I don't give a damn what you promised or what she wanted."

Rhys stared and he was fairly certain Alistair gasped. Considering Arthur usually regarded her as a rather hallowed figure, this was...was...unprecedented.

Arthur made a hard turn to make the exit and did not slow down for speedbumps as he took a shortcut through a residential area.

"I realize you're thick. And because you are, I'm going to clear things up for you right now. You chose WRONG! But for the future, and considering our luck as of late, if it comes down to me or one of the children, let alone two of them. YOU CHOOSE THE CHILDREN! You FREAKING choose the children."

"Noted," Rhys replied.

"Write it down in your stupid, sodding little book. I know you have one on you. DO IT."

He obeyed and jotted it down.

They were quiet for a time as Arthur sped along to where their vehicle's GPS system signalled there was a Freeway exit.

Rhys shifted uncomfortably; there was an ominous circularity to Alfred's actions.

And it seemed to extend outward like a vortex that found the young American and those who loved him doomed to repeat the same misunderstandings over and over again.

He'd healed Arthur.

Healed him...not...

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Should you really be the one driving?"

"Belt up."

Rhys sighed. He dialed Mathieu twice and sent several texts. "Canada isn't answering."

Arthur's hands clenched the wheel.

Rhys blew out a slow, calming breath, and nearly dropped his phone when it rang.

"Speaker phone!" Arthur demanded.

But it wasn't Canada or America...it was Puerto Rico.

They'd exchanged numbers a while back because it was easier to collaborate grocery needs via text.

"Rico? Slow down. What-"

" _W-we...we…we're doing all we c-can."_

His voice was all wrong. Rhys's stomach tightened as the young man rushed to explain.

"Rafting?!" Arthur squawked. "At this time of-"

The sun was only just dawning.

Arthur was beside himself. "Good God, the water! Cold shock is almost a given—get hypothermia just from the spray!"

" _We capsized. It was so sudden. The whole thing. Them...wanting to raft. And then that happening and nobody had any life preservers or anything and-"_

Arthur had already been pale from blood loss, now he went gray and his driving grew erratic.

"Drive. Drive, Arthur, drive." Alistair undid his belt to throw himself half over the console to help steer.

"He's...that's why I can't feel him, isn't it? Rhys?" His youngest brother's mouth trembled.

The Welshman couldn't answer. Alfred had become dangerously adept at shielding. Some natural kind of affinity for it. Perhaps Osha had triggered it with her mental assaults or...or...something…?

It was terribly possible he'd cut them off and during the disconnection...died. It would explain why neither he nor Arthur had felt a welling of dread or pain the way they had in December.

He swallowed down the lump in his throat.

"Rhys?!"

Puerto Rico continued in the pause and it came out that no one had been wearing scuba suits and the flipline had broken. No precautions.

Arthur's breathing grew louder and shakier as grief and panic filled and overflowed.

Spain's voice came over then. " _I lost them. I...lost them."_

"Texas, also?" Alistair asked.

There was a sob on the other end and then Rico was back on the line. " _It happened so fast. The water took them. It...it…"_

Rhys gave Alistair a tap to let him know he'd assist with steering if Alistair saw to his phone.

Alistair sighed and settled back into his seat, staring glumly at the phone in his hand. "I'm sorry, Rico. Little brothers…"

Indeed.

"Albion," Rhys offered gently as he leaned as far as his seatbelt would allow to adjust Arthur's grip on the steering wheel. "If you pull to the side, we can switch. I can take over for you."

Arthur sniffled and shook his head and his command of the vehicle steadied. Rhys settled back into the passenger seat.

" _Stupid idiota. S'posed to be a naval captain. Was a marine. Tha's not s'posed to happen to him. He's a good swimmer. I helped teach him I...I...she kept teasing him so I went and I helped teach him. I mean, I'm sitting here and I-I…"_ He went in and out of English and Rhys had trouble following. " _-and Papi got the raft. He keeps going back in to try and find...he says there's an undertow...and-and I'm here with the raft and it's all flat and...and-"_ Quite abruptly Puerto Rico's tone changed. " _Hijo de puta...Hijo...Son of a bitch! I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch. I'm gonna fucking KILL him!"_ A deluge of Spanish expletives followed and then the phone call ended.

Rhys struggled to make sense of it. "Grief sometimes takes on the semblance of anger-"

"Bollocks," Alistair cut in. "I know grief-rage. Tha' wasn't-" They heard a phone vibrate with an incoming call. The Scotsman extracted his own phone from his pocket and turned it to speaker phone. "There you are, yeh soulless boxty-eatin' clown. Way to get locked out of the loop-"

" _-always teasin' me for keeping my phone in a plastic bag when I travel so it don't get wet. Who's the paranoid worrywart now, huh? They're expensive toys, ya follow? My bill's terrible without needing to replace the damn thing-"_

"Mine's worse."

"Alistair." Rhys turned in his seat to deliver a glare.

"Sorry. Where the hell are you?"

" _Ohhhhh, now yer wondering? Now, hmm? By the by, thanks for ditching me!"_ came a furious whisper. " _I'm soakin' wet. Gonna chafe somethin' awful I tell ya-"_

"Anytime. What's with you though? There's no way yeh talked yerself hoarse."

" _Yeah well, I gargled a bit of the Yayagiohammy, er, the Yugiohenny? The Yugiogheny-"_

"You were on the raft!?" Scotland replied.

That piqued Rhys and Alistair's attentions.

" _How...How did yeh know about...I was gonna tell ya...best part. Who told?"_

"Puerto Rico called about yer ship sinking there. I wondered at it fer a sec for Arthur and I both thought she was seaworthy. But now...knowin' a rotten luck Irishman was aboard. Nuthin' coulda saved her or the la-"

" _-probably shoulda left Rico a note or texted or somethin'...don't have his number though. Sooo,"_ his tone brightened, " _were you all worried about me?"_

"No," Alistair snickered.

"Yes." Rhys glowered at the redhead in their van, even as his face burned with guilt.

Their brother's mood soured. " _Did yeh even care I was gone? Did ya even notice? Did ya even feckin' notice? I mean, I know Artie was a mushy mess and he's the wee baby but...he is alright, right?"_

"Aye, he's fine," Alistair answered. "I mean, he's grievin' and weavin' on the road here on account of the laddies. But he's breathin' and he'll be fine. Where ARE you?" Alistair demanded. "Yeh near-drowned drama queen?"

" _Use your GPS."_

"My what? Me phone does that!?"

" _Aye yer phone…'S the same as mine...bugger...hand it to Rhys. Hand it over ya eeedgit."_

"Fine."

Rhys accepted both of the phones Alistair thrust at him, slipping his own back into his coat and focusing on the second.

"We did worry," Rhys insisted. "I-"

" _Go to hell, yeh dragon-lovin' liar."_

Rhys glowered and then turned the GPS feature on. "You're in the middle of the forest."

And for a moment he'd dared to believe Reilley had something useful to contribute.

" _Aye!"_ was the jubilant, hushed reply.

Hazel eyes narrowed. "Why do you keep whispering? Is your throat hurt from-"

Reilley sucked in what seemed like an almost excited breath. " _ **Espionage**_ _."_

"Wha?"

"Wot?"

"What?"

" _I...espionage...I-I_ _ **know**_ _I'm sayin' the word right. Just cuz I ain't the James Bond type, the rest of you can't even be supportive for a half-second-"_

Their Irish brother usually wasn't tasked with missions of that nature because he couldn't smother his accent. And he was too noticeable. What with his blindingly bright orange hair, the tendency to start arguments, and breaking into pub songs at the drop of a hat.

Alistair wasn't much better. Though he at least made an attempt not to engage with passersby or God forbid, ask for directions in enemy territory—drawing attention to the fact he was a foreigner.

Which was why undercover assignments were usually Arthur or Rhys's forte.

" _Look. I'm following."_

"Yer followin' what?" Alistair groused from the backseat. "For God's sake man, if you are bird-watchin' I'm gonna-"

" _Don't get yer kilt in a bunch. The boys. I'm trackin' em."_

"They're...alright?" Arthur stated faintly.

Reilley initiated Facetime and turned his phone away from himself. Rhys immediately recognized the forms of Alfred and Texas several spans away.

"They're alright," Rhys confirmed.

"Those little... _ **creeps**_ ," Alistair seethed. A wrath very similar to Puerto Rico's was brewing in the Scotsman.

Rhys felt his own mood darken as he too deduced what was afoot.

"They're-they're…thank God," Arthur mumbled. "They're...w-why are you lot angry?"

Rhys frowned. "Arthur, they sabotaged their craft deliberately!"

* * *

Read & Review Please :DDD


	48. Chapter 48

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or Edible Arrangements. Or Streets of Laredo. Or Disney's _Brave_. Or Lovelytheband's song, _Broken_. Or _Pearly Shells_ by Leon Pobler and Webley Edwards or _Tiny Bubbles_ by Don Ho. Or Dante's inferno lines: _Inf._ 33.155-57. Or the UK's "Keep Calm" motto. Or Exodus: 2:18: _Thou shall not suffer a witch to live..._

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, linguistically, and grammatically). As well as but not limited to things you just don't like. Implications of corruption. Hinkypunks, will-o-the-wisps, and ghostlights all refer to the same creature which usually leads travelers to their doom/death, etc. Casablanca Directive of WWII. Colonial magic/evil prevention? Possibly disturbing imagery and/or implications for the faint of heart. Against all odds and probably the laws of physics...Tex managed to keep his hat with him. Irish folklore abounds with dark magic, curses, creatures, and the like.

 **AN:** Thank you for your reviews, but a reminder: critiques are fine, ad hominem is not.

Amerikia, I laughed pretty hard at that sum up. I might need to enlist you to do an HONEST EPISODE RECAP for the start of each of my sequels. XD

In other news, I think I've decided Lovelytheband's _Broken_ is Sirena's unofficial anthem.

Hang on y'all, the adventure continues and I hope you enjoy this chap!

 **Chapter 48: So DEAD**

* * *

Reilley carefully held his arm out from behind a tree, determined to 'Keep Calm' and film on. He might not have been the grand hero of the last few adventures their clan had tumbled into but...he might just earn some bragging rights from his brothers if he managed to hold on where they couldn't. He might also creep his way into the Favorite Uncle spot after all.

Because at the end of the day, and he thought it obvious, Alistair and Rhys were far less merciful than him. One fettered by battlefield honor and warrior codes, the other snagged by a fisherman's net of logic and philosophy and-and sense!

Aye. Unfocused, irrational, raw power that could be vented through so many outlets...and by a loose-cannon seven year old with questionable morals was...fucking terrifying.

No proof of whiskey was strong enough to wash that reality away.

But...his blue eyes narrowed...Life didn't always make sense, did it? Yeh couldn't be a good shoulder to cry on or a royal guest or a bartender and expect all the laments to pass your ears to go and make sense. If they made perfect sense they wouldn't be interesting or worth listenin' to in the first place. And Mary be with yeh, if yeh tried to preach sense at someone langered by alcohol or emotion…

And sometimes magic...didn't make sense. At least the kind one would _want_ to understand. Their ma had warned that sometimes magic prompted one to darker spaces, it had needs— appetites...for balance…

Respecting rituals and innocuous things, like attending fairy weddings and baby showers, could only satiate it so far.

He knew the position he was settling into now was a far cry from the one he'd been in December. Because, honest to God, teaching baby magic classes to someone prone to wreaking chaos seemed like an invitation to be run over by Fate's Wheel. Like yellin' to the open sky, "O'er here! Strike me dooown!"

But no one who could remove a hex like Albion's with so little effort...was wholly unschooled in the Arts.

Maybe Arthur hadn't taught him...but he'd learned it all the same...somewhere...somehow...once upon a time ago...

He knew Alistair and Rhys had been so focused on the blood, they didn't notice Alfred's hands.

Or what it meant.

There was method in his nephew's madness after all.

And if what he suspected, Hell, if what he _**knew**_ instinctively was fully confirmed…

His nephew finally made sense...in a Saturnalian sort of way…

It was why he could flip flop between success and failure so extremely! Why some of their "lessons" fell so flat!

It was fundamentally tied into his magic and that hex he'd borne and all of it.

And Eire could work with that! He had stories and contacts they could make use of.

But that was all for later.

Like ballads and verses, it was all about timing. And once he knew the state of things, and this debacle was dealt with, he could make a real dashing entrance and offer up his own overture about apprenticeship.

Which was infinitely better than what the others were offering: patronizing remedial courses.

He knew Alistair and Rhys had been giving Arthur grief over who was going to truly be in charge of Alfred's magical education. Wouldn't it be fun if he could just blow them all out of the water? O it reminded him of his piracy days...

Because Alfred didn't need some magic nursery minder, he—

" _We're lookin' at a tree, Eire."_

"Right. Sorry." He flexed his wrist.

Alfred was sitting on a great tangle of roots and wringing out his socks of excess water. Afterwards, he wadded them up and stuffed them in his pockets.

Texas was pacing. "I'm SO dead. So dead. I'm dead. Dead man walking. He's gonna keep that lil' creepy shrine of me up cuz he's gonna make it real. But maybe if I call Stuart...and beg. He likes Stuart. I can get him to schmooze for me? You think an eatable arrangement will be enough?"

"Edible," Alfred corrected absently.

"Right, you think, like, four of them'll be enough? Maybe eight? With a real sappy card? The expensive kind at the grocery store. The one that hurts when they ring up the price. Why the hell should a card ever be eight bucks? Damn. You know, I really thought getting to say my piece and all that and seeing him feel low and lousy would make me feel better."

Alfred looked over at his brother and waited.

Texas made another go of pacing. "I feel like the jerk. I mean, I can be the jerk. I've been the jerk lots o' times. But damn. It's just...the rapids were right then and I didn't know he was gonna get all heartfelt. But that was where the undertow was and if I didn't Houdini us then, we'd have had a hell of a time trying to shake him off. I'm so dead. Gettin' him with the same trick. Twice. He's gonna kill me. Third time's the charm and it'll be done. No Streets of Laredo funeral for me. Mexico and Rico will help him cover it up, you know how they operate. Yup. This cowboy won't be gallivantin' nowhere after-"

"You chose to do it," Alfred stated tonelessly.

"You didn't give me any signal that we were gonna incorporate them. I had to infer that we were still going according to plan. And the plan is you and me, pilgrim. And maybe Hawaii. She wanted to try and catch up."

"They're probably safer," Alfred offered softly as he leaned back against the tree's trunk.

"Yeah well, 'probably safer' but definitely pissed off. Rico's blowing up my phone like he was given the Casablanca directive. He figured it out fast. I mean, if it was just Papi, we'd have had longer. But Rico knows. My cell's kinda fritzy from getting wet, but...I don't think its record is glitching. He's called me 52 times. Like a drunk, enraged ex-girlfriend. I'm too goddamn scared to read the texts." There was a beep. "And there's another one I ain't touchin' with a ten foot pole."

"Has Spain called you?"

"...No."

"..."

Tex attempted to get back to business. "I can ballpark the directions to where Osha's coordinates were but…I think she was off. Close but off. She seems like an overplanner. They always get stuff wrong by teeny degrees. That's just my gut though."

Alfred watched him. "The bad thing is in that general direction too."

Tex chuckled, "And now we're listenin' to your gut."

"But we lack the luxury of time to be wrong. Somebody's gotta know for sure." Alfred glanced around. "The trees say we're being watched."

"Say what?"

Reilley choked and gave the trees around him an accusatory look. Snitches!

Plant powers. They were too easy to underestimate.

Alfred shrugged. "Let's use it to our advantage."

Reilley willed himself to remain quiet as long as he could. It just didn't feel like the right opportunity for him to announce himself had arrived yet.

Alfred strode forth, cleared his throat, and sang fearlessly:

" _Adrift I do wander this Darkness!_

 _Battered by shadow and wind._

 _Your king he swears your adherence:_

 _Vows every UnSeelie's my friend."_

Reilley shivered. Despite the identical melody, that wasn't the sad lament his nephew had warbled out last December.

There was power in it now.

Reilley felt the hairs on his neck stand on end as the forest came alive with shadows.

Though he only saw a few glowing eyes, his magic was warning him that the area was crawling with UnSeelies and he needed to watch his step.

Further confirmation that Alfred was no slouch in sorcery.

He nodded approvingly and smirked; the minute he'd seen his nephew dispersing that thrice-damned hex under his heel, popping it like a blueberry...he knew.

No wonder the UnSeelies were rabid fans and watched him so close; they'd been waiting for him to reclaim his birthright.

"Lead me," Alfred commanded. "To where I must go."

There was a murmuring of dark voices and whispers of acknowledgement.

Several spans ahead, a small round sphere of green-white fire appeared.

Reilley's head cocked to the side in wonder. Willing aides? His nephew was a favorite to them indeed!

"Ghostlight," Texas breathed.

"Hinkypunk," Alfred agreed. As they approached it, it disappeared and reappeared further off.

"Shoulda had Scotland along for the ride," Tex tutted. "Reminds me of 'Brave.'" He hummed a couple of the Disney movie's songs before losing some of his forced cheeriness. "So they're all mad at you. Al, you gotta get your head back in the game. You've dealt with that before. Shake it off."

Alfred's hands clenched. "I was trying to help. I wanted that hex to be off him...just in case something...something...happens and I don't have the power to...I had to do it right now while it's building...That's the way it had to be."

Tex seemed to think on that long and hard before asking in a somber tone, Reilley wasn't used to: "General? Permission to do the same? Set things in order?"

"Granted. You can...tell whatever you want. We've got enough of a head start. It won't compromise anything."

Texas pulled out his phone and he stared down at the device. "Bandaid quick. Bandaid quick. Just. Gotta. Do. It." He swallowed and dialed. It rang for a bit and then, "Hola, Papi. Yo quiero-"

Texas had to hold the phone at arm's length as Spain's voice boomed out of its speaker.

Texas called across as best he could, "Sí, Rico was-yeah-he was-right-I-uh-"

Reilley nearly dropped his phone. Antonio could really yell when it suited him. He usually had such a sunny disposition, Reilley often had trouble reconciling the historical facts with the personification. But this really showed he had a temper on him!

The Spaniard's voice rose and fell through the conversation—punctuated by Texas's responses.

"Yo no-Papi, mi disculpe-no! Look, I just...I called because I wanted to see if you'd still pick up. No. No, I ain't joking. Yes, I'm serious. Cuz we are on a mission. We've been on one the _whooole_ time. Neither of us wanted y'all to come. But y'all barged in and we just...had to make things work. For everybody."

" _THIS DOES NOT WORK FOR ME!"_ Antonio thundered.

"Eeeeyeah, I can understand why you see it that way...cuz it is...that...uh...way. I'm sorry." Tex fiddled with the rim of his hat. "Yeah, well, ya know...I guess if you feel that way...I understand. I...I understand if...Jesus-"

" _DO NOT USE HIS NAME IN VAIN!"_

"-I wasn't gonna chicken out...I understand if you wanna...go ahead and disown me-"

" _¿¡Pero qué me estás contando!?"_

"Well, that's where this is leading, yes? I mean, you are in a rage. Right now. I mean, you're seein' red. And I...I deserve it. So, if this is the end. I wanna take it like a man-"

" _¡¿Qué soy yo?! ¿Un monstruo?"_

"I don't think you're...a monster anymore than us...I just...you know...you're actually...taking this real well, Papi. I expected a lot more swearing." Texas looked over at Alfred and covered the speaker. "I think we're safe. I mean, with the decibel he's hitting. If he was _**anywhere**_ nearby, we'd be hearing him. Kinda empowers me to just have this conversation knowing that."

" _¿Dónde estás, mi hijo? ¡Mijo!"_

"I'm here. I'm here. I'm just...talkin' to Al."

" _¿El está bien?"_

Texas stilled and then pulled his hat off and wrung it fretfully. "Well, yeah. Oh...right. Yeah, I-I got him out. 'Course I did. I mean, we're freezing our asses off but nothing we can't-No. NO! No, we're not gonna get sick again. If I did, it was one mouthful. I've survived plenty of bad wells. One taste of river water ain't gonna do me in. No...no...If we die out here, Papi, I promise you, it ain't gonna be from anything normal like-"

" _Your mission is deadly?! Why in the seven hells would you two go unaided? DO YOU EVEN HAVE THE SUPPLIES YOU NEED?!"_

Even at a distance it was clear, Tex got flushed with embarrassment. "I...I got a gun. It's drying. Got a knife. It's...well...it's made out of bone. Some tic tacs. Might have to hunt a bit...yeah...a little unprepared but Al's the Macgyver type so-"

" _You need back up. Papi can be backup-"_ Tex winced at his father's voice screeched at him. " _I know Americans like to lead, that's fine. Papi will back you up. You wait. You wait for me! You wait riiight where you are for me-"_

Texas looked to America. He plonked his hat on his head. He gestured to the phone and, subsequently, Spain's offer.

Alfred chewed his lip, frowned in contemplation, and then shook his head.

Tex nodded. "No. We can't. We gotta find this magic gate...thing. I dunno. No, _**really**_ , I do not know. I'm being honest. I AM. I wasn't with Al back then and his memory's wonky. Oye, you said you weren't good with the whole magic thing. So guess what? We didn't plan for you to be a part of this. Yeah, well, I-I wanna learn this stuff. I mean, I always saw ghosts and shit and, Boss, you weren't really supportive—you always thought I was makin' it up as a little kid. I wasn't! I-I-Well, I didn't tell you this time because I couldn't trust you! You can't just...step in...I know it hasn't been a lot of time to you. But it has for me!"

Texas took his hat off and kicked at a tree root until Alfred slapped his foot away with his hands. "I dunno. It's just...you always tell me what to do. You don't listen. Look, yes, I fuck things up. It happens. But...sometimes, you have to let me do things my way. Even if I'm wrong. Even if it's stupid. I'm too tired to fight with you all the time. Plus, I...I really don't want to. No. I don't like the blame game any more than you do. This is important to me. Papi...this is important. I need to do this. For me. For Al. For us. Okay?" Texas dragged his heel in the dirt. "I'm sorry. Sorry. You're right. I should've just been upfront about all of this from the start. But I didn't think you'd-Yes, I stand corrected. You CAN shut up. Gracias. Shoot, I know that. I can't make you do anything anymore than you can make me. Sí, sí, I will. Yes. I promise. Okay. Okay. Yes, okay! I don't know-I just-I will stop yelling when you stop yell-okay. Right. Te quiero." He ended the call and put his phone away. "Sooooo. He's on his way after us."

Alfred sent him an incredulous look.

"Yeah, I know. But you said we had a good head start. And if we DO die in the attempt, we got a cleanup crew comin' on up on the scene. Plus, he says he's good with the magic thing now. Who'd've thought?"

"..." Alfred raised an eyebrow.

Texas fidgeted a bit. "He said if his only choice was between accepting creepy pagan magic or losing me. He-" the brunet got choked up. "He'd choose me. Every time."

"..."

"I _know_ , right? That's big. Huge. He's super, ultra, scary Catholic." He sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve and then bit down on a knuckle. "And he still-dammit, I told myself I wasn't gonna cry. But it really is something."

" _Well, isn't that fucking wonderful?"_

Reilley pulled his phone away to scold Alistair, "Jaysus, yeh barmy git, keep yer goddamn voice down. Or yeh'll give me away and they'll gimme the slip. I'm bleeding plankin' it over here. Stuff's afoot, man. I got theories-"

" _We found Mathieu,"_ the Scotsman growled.

"O yeh did now?"

" _Aye. Used that confangled GPS to track his phone."_

"An' how is the boyo?"

" _I'm stuck in a tree"_ was the weak reply.

" _And not the way one would expect,"_ Rhys offered unhelpfully.

Reilley stared as their phone was moved to show him what they were dealing with. The Canadian was literally enmeshed in a tree. Like he'd sunk into it...like quicksand...but sideways.

"Fuck?!"

" _Exactly,"_ Alistair grumbled. " _More of Alfred's handiwork."_

Half of Mathieu's torso and all of his head were angled out, so he could breathe easily, but his hips, right arm, and right leg were encased. His left calf and foot were peeking out.

" _It's very uncomfortable,"_ Mathieu deadpanned. " _My phone was in the pocket I couldn't reach to call or text...and I've needed to pee for the last half hour."_

" _Well, hold it a bit longer, laddie."_ Alistair drew his claymore from the ether and brandished it.

* * *

Momilani hooked a flashlight onto her belt as she held her cellphone between her ear and shoulder.

She'd already gathered up what couldn't be left behind at the site and was checking over the essentials she'd need for the mission.

She had a sports bag carrying the creepy map-quilt of Osha's letters, Alfred's Captain America backpack and all within it, some rations, some water, a compass, and the TOP SECRET folder Stuart had delivered.

Alaska warned her to be careful, " _The witch and her familiars will know those woods intimately."_

"Yeah…" she swallowed and tried to steel herself.

When Alfred's text had come through stating _Plan A.5: H3ll N a H &bsket_ was on, she reminded herself that she'd demanded inclusion for this mission.

" _Keep me informed,_ " Alaska stated.

"I will."

She ended the call.

If she didn't text him periodically every three hours, he'd be on his way.

She blew out a slow breath; Alaska was kind of their reserve player. They could always depend on him showing up as the cavalry.

But she had this. She totally had this.

It was good she could hotwire a car. One pair of keys were with Spain and the other with Scotland, wherever the hell they were, and Rico's phone kept giving her a busy signal and sent her to voicemail.

She drove the vehicle as near to the coordinates as the road would allow. She texted Stuart to be prepared that the van might be towed and to be ready to make calls to spring it out.

The rest of the way would have to be on foot. In theory, she'd just need to travel laterally and she should make it there, possibly even before the rest of the group.

The morning sun had done little to burn off the unsettling mist rising up to dampen her clothing and chill her.

Perfect.

Cold damp was the worst.

The hours passed as she moved along, and the pale sunshine did little to warm up her half-frozen joints.

Still, looking at the pics Tex sent her of meagre animals they'd managed to catch and various plant bits they'd foraged for meals made her grateful for the rations she'd packed and the backup stash of jerky Alfred had squirreled away in his backpack.

She rolled a shoulder to crack it and texted Alaska that she kinda wished something would happen already.

It was that boring slump part of an adventure in between spots of action.

Alaska sent back that she was probably in the 'Calm Before the Storm.'

Which got hurricanes and tsunamis and other dangers to light up in her brain.

He probably did that on purpose to get her alert.

He was always kind of a Debbie Downer, so she tried not to get rattled...which got harder to do the longer she traveled without encountering anyone at all.

Plus, these continental trees just weren't as perky as her palm or hala trees.

Though maybe the unnerving sensation she was getting from them was what some tourists felt about her banyan trees.

Still, these ones here seemed far less friendly.

They were all dark and tall and sprawling and ominous here—blotting out light to disorient her eyes and tripping her feet up at the slightest provocation.

She shook her head. The solitude had to be messing with her if she was personifying TREES!

Come on, Momilani! Al would say this is just dystopian future training! Did she want to keep her place on his team or not?!

She longed to play music and liven the atmosphere up, but she didn't want to drain her phone.

Some time later she mused that while spring was nearly on them, days still didn't last long this high up in the northern hemisphere.

She turned on her flashlight and sang _Pearly Shells_ and then _Tiny Bubbles_ to herself because…

Because...Tch. Fine, Tex! She shook her fist at him symbolically. Because he would say "I told you so" given even half a chance.

It was more than a little creepy, being a lady totally alone in the woods. In the dark. While New England-ish or was it Middle Colony witches? Dammit, she didn't pay a lot of attention to Al's history. Were wandering around?

No. She was a strong, capable woman willing and able to kick the ass of anyone dumb enough to-

A hand clamped down on her shoulder.

"AHHHH!"

It would've been a jawbreaking punch, one of the good ones Al had personally taught her how to deliver, if Alistair hadn't caught it and twisted her into a harmless position.

"I _**know**_ this ain't a coincidence," he muttered gruffly before letting her go with a gentle, but obviously irritated, shove.

The rest of the bedraggled group appeared in her flashlight's range.

Rhys frowned. "You know more about what's going on."

No pleasantries were made on his behalf, no denials on hers.

He took a step forward.

She blew out a slow breath.

He was the empath. It was a really eerie talent, but she was determined to hold her ground. "Obviously. Enjoying our nighttime stroll, gentlemen?"

"No." Three sets of thick brows furrowed.

Were they...short a member?

Rhys continued, "I'd prefer it if you didn't try to deflect. I can sense that's what you're trying to do."

They _were_ short a member! They were missing a redhead. Where was Reilley?

She crossed her arms. "I'm not obligated to share-"

"I know Alfred's plan," England cut across. Even in her flashlight's glow, he looked unusually pale and sickly...even for a European.

"He told you?" She was unsure whether to feel relieved or threatened by the news. It was very out of character...for Al. Had something already gone wrong?

"...yes. Yes, before…when he..."

"When he?" she motioned for him to go on.

Arthur struggled to articulate, "...he…"

"What?" Panic was starting to eat at her.

"-assaulted him," Alistair supplied.

"What?!" The hell?

Arthur railed against that. "No, it-it wasn't thought out-"

"He assaulted him," Alistair repeated. "And then he went and trapped Mat-"

"Alba...after," Rhys warned. "After we've found him and left and everything's...settled."

Arthur sounded strangely defensive. "No. He...removed the hex that was on me. He just...didn't inform me that he was going to do so. He's a child. He can't be expected to reason-"

"That sounds like him. He always keeps me in a need to know basis." She sighed. It was super irritating. _What the hell did you do, Al?_ She wondered. "So...you...know. Know what exactly?"

Arthur squirmed a bit as the eyes of his group fell on him. "I told you lot, he's heading to the 'bad thing' in the ground."

She put a hand on her hip, unconvinced.

Arthur noticed her doubt and elaborated, "Osha's letters created a map that you're following to coordinates somewhere in this wood. It's the gate he closed in 1812. You're scouting it out. He didn't wish us to know but wasn't able to dissuade us in such a way that wouldn't make us suspicious which finally culminated in him discarding the charade altogether. He couldn't deceive us for much longer and so he's simply opted for staying several steps ahead."

She nodded. Yup. That was the gist of it. At least Alfred came clean with most of it. Now for Arthur to cough up to a few things. "You hired a private investigator."

Arthur blinked. "Yes. Detective Jenkins-"

"Yes," she pulled out the folder and tapped it. "That opened a can of worms. It dredged this up. I can't show you this. Al shared it with me and Tex. It's really for his eyes only. But it was between him and President Madison."

"Then why are you telling me?"

"Because it's literally two sheets of paper and neither say much. And I saw you playing Sherlock Holmes with fewer details than that last year. I want to know what's going on too. And I want the real version not the Disneyfied report that those two will make up for me after the fact."

"...so you're going to...leak information to me? I don't know if I'm comfortable with-"

She didn't have time for comfort or legalities or Alfred's pissy enfant-terrible-rage when he learned that she broke ranks.

Alfred was acting weird and she wanted to get to the bottom of it.

What was that turn of phrase? She'd rather ask for forgiveness than permission?

In the last few hours, Alfred simply texted her two instructions. It was still enough to show he was operating on a different mental plane than usual:

 _Rendezvous at the penned coordinates._

 _Allocate and deliver supplies._

He usually didn't waste time typing things out like that. Normally, she'd get text speak that was concise and vague, like, _c u s00n_ and _bring stuff, plz_ and a happy face. Just in case their communications were being monitored.

And he didn't call her. He usually called and gave a few loaded statements she'd have to unpack afterwards.

No.

It was Texas who called her to keep her in the loop. And yes, he was honest and upfront and told her everything he knew but...

Alfred was letting Tex do the talking. He only did that when he really wasn't up to the task. Or hiding things.

She was worried. She was really worried and she wanted answers. If she had to get them from Arthur, so be it. She'd bend the rules where she needed to. Alfred was worth it.

"One just has a date, their signatures, and the word: 'Arrangements.' And…" Her expression faltered. "And the other is several weeks after with a-a really short apology? It's odd. It's...from the president and two sets of keys for the ' _remaining effects of AFK to be delivered when inquired for._ '" She gave air quotes.

Arthur mulled that over. "One of those dates is before the burning of the White House and the other is after."

"I-I guess?" She snuck a peek into the folder. "Yes. Yes, it is."

"We already have the trunk. And the trunk was full of letters. Remnants," he thought aloud, "...remaining...remainders...remnants of...property of Alfred Faer Kirkland-"

There was a loud SNAP of a branch breaking underfoot and a stifled curse.

Unfortunately, it wasn't enough warning to properly mount a counter attack.

Ropes moved like snakes and they soon found themselves captured.

* * *

Scotland sighed.

He blamed his shoddy battle instincts and rotten mood on precious little sleep and nearly nothing to eat. He had an awful hunger headache splitting his skull.

But there was more to it than that.

Damn it all. Somehow...somehow, it had happened: he'd gone soft.

Somewhere along the way he'd gotten used to military campaigns supplying him with the food he needed to stay strong and alert. He'd grown used to the convenience of having stores of food on hand for packing when he needed to make journeys to the fairy realms.

He'd grown entitled...used to having the best equipment when he planned to go for a hunt.

Nothing he did was truly spontaneous anymore.

Goddammit.

He'd lost a piece of himself. He could almost envision a younger Alba cursing him out. To go a full day without catching nuthin'…and with his brothers and Mathieu depending on him...

Ack, it was humiliating.

He cursed his predicament again.

His ropes were snug—expertly tied. "Not your first time." He nodded at the old crone dragging him by his feet.

Her smile revealed gray gums and missing teeth.

He could picture his nephew shuddering at the dreaded "meth mouth."

That brought more pain.

Why was he here?

O right.

Because their family was beyond dysfunctional.

They couldn't even go on a bloody camping trip without drama of epic proportions.

Arthur was in denial that his impromptu surgery was a gross violation and apparently Alistair didn't have leave to be angry about it.

Rhys had been adamant as they followed Arthur out of the hospital room that they needed to play along and tiptoe around that or they'd risk alienating themselves from their brother who needed their support but who was determined not to view Alfred as someone unpredictable and dangerous.

Unstable more like.

Hours earlier, Alistair had been stacking sleeping bags into the van when Rhys had dropped a cooler of food.

Reilley barely managed to keep it from landing on his foot. " _Steady on!"_

Alistair had stared at the mess for a beat because that did NOT happen; Rhys was too careful a man for that to simply happen.

His hazel eyes had been wide and he rasped. " _Albion's in danger."_

Fear and fury had clawed at him as they raced back to the site.

The fuck had he been thinking? Leaving the two most vulnerable members of their party alone? And right after their site had been breached!

Complete blunder on his part.

Arthur and Alfred should've already been moved out of enemy territory.

Seeing his youngest brother unconscious in the chair red pooling beneath him…

And then his nephew splattered in his father's blood.

He just...hadn't known what to do with Alfred then, other than push him away.

He'd been overwrought with shock at the betrayal or was it bewitchment?

The blue eyes had been bright and strange and feral, his expression unlike any he'd known from the boy.

There was a newfound sharpness to him that made him lethal.

Arthur's safety took priority then.

Alistair could come back for the boy.

And then Arthur's assurance that Alfred wasn't enchanted…

Alistair's stomach flopped each time he thought of it.

They'd let him into their circle, trusted him.

Arthur had probably let the child cozy right up to him and then-then!

Terrible.

But Rhys had hesitated on condemning him.

" _He DID heal him. I just...I can't sense him or his intentions. So I...I don't know what thought processes he was going through then or is going through now. I thought he was bewitched but...if he wasn't...he was just...so different...I..."_

Dammit, Alistair wasn't the actor type. It was good he'd gotten to banter with Reilley. That was easy. They'd been brothers in blood and arms for so long it forced normalcy even when they were on a calamitous battlefield. But now that the call had long since ended...he just couldn't keep it up.

This was a disaster.

His aura must've been a noxious thing because Rhys kept flashing him warning looks that he had to keep together.

He didn't know how.

The Scotsman was left near the Canadian, who shrugged his shoulders with a 'Ain't-this-the-way-it-goes?' expression.

Arseways. Everything had gone arseways.

Poor Mathieu hadn't really been rescued. He'd just gone out of the pot and into the fire.

Alfred was...mental. Assaulting his parent and his brother, deceiving his kith and kin, faking a drowning, and currently running wild through the woods in pursuit of a fairy gate or something with Texas in tow.

And Reilley was still...Irish and stupid and entirely beyond his reach to protect.

And then he couldn't even guard the people in his charge at the moment because he was fecking exhausted and tied up and his claymore was propped at the other end of their little cave!

O they were never going to be one o' those Hallmark card families.

He looked over at Arthur, who was glowering at the hags pacing around them and rummaging through Hawaii's bag.

Their eyes met and the emeralds stared him down angrily.

He was still smarting for Alistair's remarks against his child.

He sighed.

Having walked the beat as an officer, he'd seen his share of domestic violence. Knew how it could spring from the most unlikely of perpetrators…

There really wasn't any way to downplay it, though Arthur seemed determined to try.

Albion…

Albion, who couldn't let it go that Alba didn't hold back as he trained him up in swordsmanship (even despite numerous warnings and caveats that if he was to teach him to fight, he couldn't half-arse it), could turn around and forgive America for ANYTHING he did.

Scotland couldn't wrap his head around it.

They'd had plenty of fights over the years, true. But he'd never drawn blood like _that_.

It put him in a right rough spot now though.

Centuries earlier...it'd been easy to see America as the more vulnerable party and in need of shielding, guidance, and aid. Alistair had known when to cut off one of Arthur's snide remarks, when to invite the lad to a gentleman's club for a free meal, when to step in and offer advice or coffers or deliver a cuff to the ear when Alfred had need.

In short, when to protect him from the British Empire.

Except...Arthur wasn't really a force to protect him from anymore. Might not have ever been…

And it was seeming like...his brother was the one in need of Alistair's protection.

Only...the numpty would fight him tooth and nail if he gave it.

Because Alfred wasn't...was never...to be viewed as anything other than…

He remembered watching England holding the little colony close, letting the bairn ride on his shoulders, fussing over his clothing, ranting at his brothers for not safeguarding the teen during WWI...or at least not to the lengths he did.

Alfred would always be that to Arthur, wouldn't he? Something benign and harmless and desperate for his care. Alistair had similarly fallen into that trap.

He'd always been more aware that the child was strong and sturdy, but he never quite marked it off as Alfred being truly autonomous.

He was too young and inexperienced for Alistair to see him as the threat he could be.

His nephew...he'd...never been weak, had he? Not in the true sense of the word?

Down on his luck.

Overwhelmed and outnumbered often.

Forced into unfavorable positions and roles...and willing to bide his time there...

But not weak.

No…

Osha wouldn't have valued him as so integral a piece of her plans, if he'd been weak.

To think she and his brother would both see America as precious...but for entirely different reasons.

It made his brain hurt.

Even so.

Even so...not even he could loosen the grip on his heart. Like it was in a vice.

He was worried for the lad.

His nephew and Texas were alone and unguarded and these hags could easily get the drop on them as well.

Or would they?

Alfred had a track-record of snatching victory when it seemed least likely.

The hags were currently gagging Rhys and Momilani who hadn't taken their capture gracefully.

Still, they'd all been handled with remarkable care which could only mean they intended some kind of strong-armed negotiation. Perhaps this side of the Seelie and UnSeelie pond had developed a new governing system and they were flexing their muscles as it were?

They had to be political prisoners. Arthur was usually better at fancy talk and would've been his choice to speak on their behalf. But that would require workin' with the idgit and Alistair's patience was through. He'd take his chances.

"Alright, ladies. So what's your angle then?" Alistair asked. "You threaten us repeatedly and now that you have a momentary advantage...what is it you expect to get in exchange for us-"

"Threats?" One scoffed shrilly. "Threats? Did you hear him, Aggie? Threats!? Warnings and more than we rightly dared to give. My heart never beat so fast in my life-"

"I know, Prudence!" Another with a great hooked nose was similarly indignant. "Creeping like a marauding band of thieves in our own forest-"

"-To prevent another disaster-"

"-same number as before-"

Alistair wriggled against his bindings. "What're yeh saying? Be blunt-"

"We're trying to save you, you idiots!" their head witch hissed.

* * *

Texas would admit that stumbling around using his phone as a flashlight was giving him hard pangs of anxiety.

He was performing so many horror movie don'ts.

'Don't go in the woods.'

'Don't have a horror movie flashlight.'

'Don't explore at night.'

At least he didn't have a Ouija board.

His phone was on its last bar so he wouldn't be able to keep tabs on how fast his dad and brother were closing in on them. Or, you know, call for help and stuff.

And they'd need to navigate by moonlight once his phone died.

His feet kept catching on roots or rocks.

The third time he nearly tripped and fell on his face. Frustrated, he angled his phone down.

Graves.

He took a long hard gulp.

Tch. Yeah. Stumbling into a graveyard in the middle of the woods at night...Perfect.

Alfred clutched at Tex's leg.

Tex set a gentle hand on the blond, still slightly, damp head. His brother had always hated these places.

Right near two intersecting footpaths was a large grave. He lit up the inscription with his cell.

Second Lt. Alfred Faer Kirkland

1812

" _I found one of you such that, for his acts,  
in soul he bathes already in Cocytus  
and up above appears alive, in body."_

Tex pointed to it and forced a grin. "Ha, found ya. You thought you had another one somewhere. Here it is."

Alfred peered around him and then stood on top of Tex's feet, like they were gonna dance.

"We're here." He looked up at him solemnly. "It's down there."

Tex adjusted his glasses. "Kay. That ain't real helpful, Al. _What's_ down there? The gate?"

"No. But it's blocking the gate. All of this-" He gestured at the graves. "-is blocking the gate. It's blocking the gate but it's keeping the bad thing in."

"Whellp, shoot. I-I-I don't have a shovel. Guess that bad thing's just gonna have to wait-I'll text Hawaii that we found it. Found it all actually-"

"I can't open the gate with it there."

So they really were going to try and whole-shot it, then?

There was a rumbling and then the ground split.

"Fuck!" He pulled Alfred away and stepped back almost tripping over another headstone which was moving .

Roots pulled and pushed out what looked like a great big section of an anchor or stocks: it had words or something etched into the metal.

It was what came up next that made his neck hairs stand up:

A chained up coffin that had been buried facedown.

"Exodus 22:18." Alfred said it softly. But what he didn't say echoed real loud:

 _Thou shall not suffer a witch to live..._

"Witch's burial," Texas sucked in a nervous breath and reached for his gun. "When she bursts out...I'm gonna cap her."

Alfred shook his head adamantly. "We're not in any danger from-"

"What are you on about?" Tex spat. "You spoutin' off about the bad thing in the ground right before this pops up like a daisy?"

"Um, it's not a wit-"

"This is exactly the kind of dangerous thing we're s'posed to freak out about. Upside down. That was a thing then, so if they clawed their way out they wouldn't know which way to-and now that witch is gonna-"

"Bro, you're _**not**_ in any danger...not like that," Alfred stated, reaching out to a low hanging branch and giving it a caress.

Tex pointed to the case-and-point creepy ass coffin. " _Aaaaal_ -"

Sharp blue eyes locked on him. " _ **I**_ am the Witch of this Wood."

* * *

Read & Review Please! : DDD


	49. Chapter 49

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or Netflix. Or Facebook. Or Furbies. Or Brightburn. Or Pet Semetary. Or the song: 'The Cruel Mother.' Or Fine Flowers in the Valley. Or Dante's inferno: " _For it is no easy undertaking, I say, to describe the bottom of the Universe; nor is it for tongues that only babble child's play."_ Or the Bible: Leviticus 20:27: " _A man also or woman that hath a familiar spirit, or that is a wizard, shall surely be put to death." Or Genesis 3:19: "_ _By the sweat of your brow you will eat your bread, until you return to the ground—because out of it were you taken. For dust you are, and to dust you shall return."_

 **Warning:** Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, linguistically, and grammatically). Abenaki's First Mother. I've typed out an Abenaki phrase as the website listed it: "Wlalmekw8gan." That is not a typo. Note: 8 = ô (Nasal "O(n)" sound). Azeban. Continued familial discord. Somewhat disturbing graphic imagery. Bad poetry.

 **AN:** Slew of RL adulting tasks. Plus, there's nothing quite like being told by your sibling that BTW you're throwing them a baby shower on Easter weekend, they've invited a bunch of people, and here's a list of demands O_O Can't make this stuff up.

Thank you for your reviews and patience! There's been a lot of awesome comments and speculation. Special thanks to TheRobinsNest who made me a cute little Alfred doodle and Muddles for going back through Wendigo and giving it love—that really helped get me re-energized. Ugh, I had to download and review 48 chaps for maintenance and I gave MS Word a heart attack, which was interesting to witness, and had to split the file. S'matter, Bro? Can't take over 900 pages? Supposedly, they can hold up to 2000. Tch.

OMG. Rolltidemom86, I saw the _Pet Semetary_ trailer O.O (Will have to see it. I feel like this is going to be a fun year for movies. Have you seen the trailer for _Brightburn?_ )

Once again, thank you all for your reviews and continued interest! And now:

 **Chapter 49: Coffin-Surprise**

* * *

Alfred moved forward towards the coffin in an almost dreamlike state.

It was like leaving his office at three in the morning, in that half-awake, comfortably impervious, liminal headspace and driving home.

He'd always make it but couldn't remember the trip at all. There was just the confidence that he'd always succeed when he had to. Like when he gave his "Revolutionary Rant" and he never failed to believe that his listeners would be moved. Because they had to be. For him.

He snapped his fingers and the roots tore the rusty old chains apart in a spray of metal links.

"You're...controlling the trees," Tex mumbled as he followed him over.

He raised an eyebrow. "Very good. NASA's best. Keep up, Tex."

He got a cuff to the ear and laughed.

It was a strange feeling alight in his breast.

It was that beat before two microscope lenses were aligned. That moment in a lecture, at a lab table, before a chalkboard, perched on the edge of his chair, his thoughts on the brink of enlightenment, set to tumble.

For a while now, since the hex's removal, bits and pieces had been knitting themselves together but it was always haphazardly, with holes and gaps.

Now though, now he could sense a great force slowly filling them in. Making him whole. Because it was what he'd asked for. What he wanted. And he always got what he wanted.

He was uncompromising like that and he'd pay what he had to. So the universe was never stingy with him when he made demands.

He remembered leaning against the doorframe of the library reading Dante to an uncomfortable Samuel with a child's relish because "despair" was just a word then. And then sitting in the music room of Kirkland Hall in utter defeat reflecting over the passage in his mind's eye once more.

" _For it is no easy undertaking, I say,_

 _to describe the bottom of the Universe;_

 _nor is it for tongues that only babble child's play."_

And he remembered waiting in a holding cell in the 1690s and later in 1814 reciting Leviticus 20:27.

" _A man also or woman that hath a familiar spirit,_

 _or that is a wizard, shall surely be put to death."_

Those were important things. He knew that. Remembered that. He just didn't remember why yet.

Texas gave an involuntary shudder that he'd learned to interpret as meaning that paranormal activity was afoot.

"Spectres?"

Texas swallowed hard. "Uh, yeah."

"Angry?"

"Whellp, not happy. They sure ain't whistlin' Dixie."

He didn't see anything. Not yet. Spirits had to be particularly powerful for him to take notice. He usually just felt them.

And he did sense them here.

He blew out a breath and watched it fog before him.

He should've been terrified, the way he usually was.

He just felt...oddly resigned. Like he'd put this off for too long a time and it was better to face it head on and be done with it finally.

The roots turned the coffin right side up and then pried the lid back. Though the engravings on the wood were old and faded and worn; he peeked in but didn't dare touch the surface.

"Texas," he called. "You'll have to do the heavy lifting. It's spelled against me."

"Goodie."

Tex peered in with his phone's light and with a frenzied "SHIT! SHIT! SHIIIT!" he almost fell down in his haste to scramble away.

"GAH! Jesus, Al! A little warning! Good night! That is freaky!"

The clouds drifted and moonlight momentarily lit up their small clearing.

Alfred glanced down at the twisted skeletal inhabitant. Time had detached its jaw and disintegrated most of his clothing, though a few tatters of cloth remained here and there. But that probably wasn't what had spooked his brother.

It was probably the Gramarye.

But time was of the essence!

He needed Samuel to help him before-

He shook his head.

He needed Texas to help him set up for the gate ritual with all due haste and then...

The book…

He blinked and rubbed at his forehead.

Dude! His head was total mush! It was like having his feet in two canoes!

He glanced back into the coffin.

It was an odd, familiar book that, while old and yellowed, showed little sign of true damage. And it was lying open. But maybe it was the location of this opened spellbook that caused Texas alarm.

The bottom two ribs of each side of the dead man's cage poked through the pages and bound the Gramarye to the corpse.

The grisly impossibility should've unnerved him as well.

Texas's chest heaved and, as he regained his composure, he spat, "A witch in there and you don't even give me a warning!? What the hell, Bro?"

Alfred blinked and gazed up at him as the sky darkened once more. "Colonel Harris wasn't a witch."

And it was fitting for him to rest in the box he'd commissioned for America.

* * *

Texas gave his little brother a flat look. "You're all kinds of creepy right now. You know that, right?"

Alfred's eyebrows drew together. "I don't mean to be. This day's discoveries have simply illuminated a-"

"You ain't even talkin' like you."

"...Dude."

"Eeeyeah. I appreciate that last ditch effort but you're a day late and a dollar short."

Alfred rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Hello, I can't get to my phone right now because my soul is blendering between 'Me's' soooo please leave a message and some me will get back to you."

Tex weighed that out. "Okay. Good. Honesty. Yes. So...you actually uh, feel er...differences?"

"I mean, there's the 'I-thought-I-was-me' ME right here talking to you. Then Roanoke ME, who's kinda just a doorstop cuz he doesn't do much, but it means something to have him there. I just haven't figured out what. And then there's Awesome McSuper Revolutionary Me, who I thought I knew but sometimes I wonder cuz he got curb-stomped by 1812. But now there's this other ME sneakin' up on the scene."

"This sounds like something we watched on Netflix."

"No, you don't get it. He's the ME that connects them all. Like all those other me's were just offshoots of a main root. There was always a little bit of him in all of them. But now he's like a tide coming in, or all the rest was icing and he's the cake, or they were the outlines of the coloring book and he's the color, or...something. It's big. I just don't know why."

Right.

Okay. Maybe he wasn't a big promoter of psychiatry and all that but if an afternoon on a shrink's couch could help his little brother sort out his...four selves...maybe he would need to push him towards Matt and Arthur to get him situated.

This wasn't the time to call out his crazy though.

"Whadda we do now, Boss?"

"Well, we'll need that eventually," he remarked and pointed to the book.

Tex ran a hand over his face and scratched at stubble that was appearing. "Of course we will."

The scrolls turned out to be mostly poetry and he had half a mind to burn them to preserve Alfred's dignity. A lot of them were for Arthur, Mathieu, and Rhys. Though one was surprisingly addressed to him and with his old spelling 'Tejas.'

He skimmed about half of it before mentally gagging and being glad it hadn't made the journey to him back then.

It would've really colored his perspective. He'd only _thought_ Al was a total dandy back then. This scrap of writing and the gushy note at the top of it would've _confirmed_ it...and language had kinda changed so some of early Al's words about his feelings had different connotations now and it'd be bad for them to find their way to Facebook.

And then there was the poem itself which was flowery in every sense.

 _As the stalk of corn springs from the source of a kernel,_

 _May the garden of our friendship bloom eternal._

Tch.

He loved his brother. He did. And he appreciated the sentiment but he could never let Mexico find this. It was the ultimate black mail. He might need to eat it like the spies of old so that no one could use it against them.

"Here they are," Alfred cried happily. He emptied a small pouch and five wooden soldiers tumbled into his hand.

He wasted no time in flitting about and placing them strategically around the small graveyard. He half expected Alfred to exclaim something about feng shui or good luck.

Instead, his questioning look was answered with, "So we won't be interrupted!"

It was only as he took a good hard look at the one nearest him, that he got a prickling sense of unease. The toy soldier had clumps of wax on him holding a tuft of old tartan and…

Brown eyes widened.

Strands of dark red hair?

"Aaaal?"

"It's just a precaution. You know? In case they try and spoil our work." That sounded smart and sensible and was a practical approach to using magic, but there was a glazed look on him as he said it.

Damn it. He hated playing Devil's Advocate for Euros. "I dunno, Al. Your dad and his bros-" he almost added 'who love you' but that might've come off too strong. "-Might have some...advice we might need though." Cuz things were swiftly going into deep water—over his head and beyond his comfort level.

Which he could've dealt with no problem if Al was firmly in the driver's seat. But he seemed kinda upside down and they were rolling through intersections like the time their model T's brake broke and they were headin' downhill.

Alfred looked to the side and then back to him. "Nonono, he's right. We can't trust them. They'll try to stop us. They would've last time if they'd known. We can't depend on them. Thinking we can is the real danger, the true peril we must avoid. He-"

"Allie?" His heart was beating hard in his chest. "Who's _he_? Cuz you and me-" He pointed his finger to them both. "-Are right here." And he hadn't heard any of the ghosts utter anything. They were just hovering silently beside their graves.

They almost seemed...afraid...to interact with them. Which was a hell of a thing. What could a ghost, that knew it was dead even, be afraid of?

Alfred fiddled with another item he'd found in a sack that almost seemed like a…wind chime...made out of bird parts. He hung it on a low lying branch. "I'm just saying he has a point. It's kinda unpatriotic to involve them at all. I mean, we didn't need them before."

Texas nodded. And he didn't want to look but he did. He glanced over his shoulder at the skeleton he'd dumped facedown because it gave him goosebumps like crazy.

Tex sucked in a breath and decided to be upfront. "Uh, I'm gonna be straight with you, little brother. I don't think Colonel Harris gives good advice. I don't think he can. Fundamentally speakin' cuz bein' evil and crazy from the getgo kinda hampers ya in that department. I wouldn't trust his two cents back in the day let alone now with inflation. So, I'm fixin' to veto that, 'kay?"

For a moment, Alfred looked like he was going to argue with him and then he slowly cobbled together a sentence: "Well, yeah...I always take your view into account." His eyes seemed to focus and then he was back. "I trust you."

Tex nodded. "Thanks."

Alfred raised an eyebrow like that was weirder than anything he'd just said.

Yeah...yeah...stuff was goin' down over here. And his phone was officially dead. In a graveyard. With Al's abusive ex-superior a couple feet away.

Fun times.

Though it was cold, Tex took off his jacket to throw it over the skeleton.

Cuz there was something off about it and the minute they were done sifting through the coffin-surprise-contents of Al's intended grave, he'd be tossing its bony ass back in.

He and Al worked to make a fire pit and get some light to better see by. And cuz if that skeleton did reanimate _Night of the Dead_ style or was somehow badass action-y skilled like _Jason and the Argonauts_ ' warriors, he wanted to notice it A.S.A.P. He wished he had his rifle along but thankfully, his Ruger LCP didn't seemed damaged from their river adventure.

He threw another branch onto the fire. "And the trees...don't mind us burning this stuff?"

Alfred frowned. "They have to shed branches now and then. Sometimes it's the weight. Sometimes there's disease or parasites. I asked them. They offered these and a lot were already on the ground, so they were fair game."

Tex poked at the fire and sighed as he took in their surroundings.

Funny. How this was one of those moments where seeing more clearly, actually made reality look a thousands times worse. His fingers started instinctively counting on his rosary.

Nine graves altogether...with Al's. And he really hoped they wouldn't have to go Easter Egg hunting in all of them.

Al motioned him back over to the coffin almost dancing with excitement. "We're almost done!"

It really was a weird combination of stuff to go through and he had to be careful as he pulled items out. Some were so old he was afraid he'd break them. Aside from leisure poetry, the rest made him think of homework—scrolls, quills, papers, ribbons, cords, and books. An old crappy copy of Dante's _Inferno_? It was like they'd emptied out the drawers of Al's desk in the 1800s and dumped them here.

But then there were some more private items like lockets and combs and buckles and other vanity objects.

And then there were great shards of glass from four tarnished standing mirrors that had been packed at the bottom of the box.

"Those! Those were important!" Al tugged at Tex's sleeve. "I remember that I used those. North, South, East, and West? Maybe? Like Yule?" His features scrunched up. "No...not like...but I need those!"

"Kay."

He pulled the mirror pieces out, handed them to Al, who gently set them down.

Once they'd finished, they looked at each other and then downwards.

Four fixer-uppers to be sure. It was gonna take some puzzle-piece figuring to get them all in the right places.

"I've got duct tape," they both declared simultaneously and laughed as they caught each other's eye.

That felt a little more like Al.

* * *

Arthur glared at the cave's ceiling and ignored his stomach's growling as the scent of chicken noodle soup filled the air.

Their captors were a coven of white witches determined to dispel the hyperbole that all hags were flesh-eating baby snatchers and that they could be excellent hosts.

Unfortunately, while progressive in this instance, they were still sadly behind in other conventions.

The idea that holding people against their will could be construed as villainous, a.k.a. kidnapping with good intentions, escaped them. They wouldn't entertain the thought at all and so several members of Arthur's group had already been gagged.

He thought they'd get along swimmingly with Osha since they clearly read from the same handbook.

Happy May Day, Arthur ol' boy, he thought miserably.

He'd known from his watch beeping a while back that midnight had come and gone.

This was NOT how he'd envisioned this holiday going.

Arthur carefully hunched his body, as though to find some respite from the chill...and more importantly conceal his true intent. He did so a bit too convincingly for a hag draped a tattered blanket over him.

She wandered back over to the bubbling cauldron and complained that caves really were too traditional and why couldn't they just rent out a room in the village for gatherings? It was the 21st Century, why not embrace thermostats?

Too simple.

Honestly, this weather was tame compared to what he was used to, but it made reaching for the emergency knife he kept in his boot a breeze.

He sawed the knife through the cords, waiting to see if there was any kind of enchantment on them to raise an alert.

Not one.

Having freed himself, he now need only bide his time.

The old biddies were squabbling over a video camera they'd found in Hawaii's effects.

Thank God they were distractable.

He froze as he heard Alfred sing lyrics of "The Cruel Mother."

It was such a pricking sense of betrayal, his eyes stung. Alfred knew how much that song and all of its variations hurt him…

And this one...was even worse than _Fine Flowers in the Valley..._

On top of the...the… impromptu surgery he'd performed…

The lack of consideration and compassion…

His heart twisted in his breast.

What was even more unexpected was the loud snort of laughter that accompanied the mournful tune.

He gave Alistair a stern glare.

"You...yeh can't see it from where you are...but-" The Scotsman choked on a snicker. "Tex is acting it out...with...with-with...Furbies! And he used his bolo tie-"

"..."

"I'm cracked, alright?" He and the hag nearest him shared a chortle. "I'm so passed stressed out and furious! And it's two in the fuckin' morning...so everything is just goddamn funnier at two in the mo-"

The lot of them watched the video several more times to try and decipher a hidden meaning in it.

And Arthur felt his temper rise with each reprise.

 _Alfred, what the hell is to be done with you?!_

Alistair shrugged, "I dunno, ladies, if yeh'd had Furbies...might be a service to the community to off 'em-"

It wasn't as grand of a distraction as Arthur would like to make an escape, but it'd have to do.

He would locate Alfred, educate him on a variety of fronts, dissuade him from opening the gate, and get him to a safe place. They'd make several calls to the government to rally a significant force to return and help them free their comrades.

He rose to a crouching position.

Mathieu noticed him then and he felt a terrible stab of guilt that he'd have to leave the lad behind.

Their captors didn't seem to mean them harm though and he could tell from the way Rhys's shoulders would twitch now and again, that his brother was working his way free of his bonds as well by means of blade or rock.

Still...

For too long Mathieu had seemed to consider himself second-fiddle to his brother.

It was just...Alfred had a greater propensity for landing into trouble and so he got more attention.

He could try to break them both out but...considering the means of travel he intended to take, the boy would slow him down immensely.

Even as it was, the amount of magic and energy involved was nothing short of impractical. And he seldom performed it outside of his own lands.

If he could've called a unicorn to him, he would've. But Miss GlimmerGlam was too young and untrained for the task and he'd likely get her lost without meaning to.

It was only because he KNEW the coordinates of the gate exactly; the hags had dumped out the contents of Alfred's Captain America rucksack and Osha's map had been facing him for the better part of half an hour. He KNEW he could travel there.

Violet eyes lowered to noticed Arthur's free hands and then raised to meet his eyes.

Mathieu gave him a silent, grim nod.

Relief washed over him and he nodded back.

He _would_ return for the lad.

He slipped out from under the blanket and bunched it up to look as though someone might still lie under it.

He moved behind a rock formation and then looked over to the cave entrance—trying to gauge when to make his dash to it. He was about to take his chances when, to his astonishment, he watched a raccoon slip in.

Which shouldn't have been an altogether uncommon thing because they'd been a mixture of furry amusement and nuisance, since he'd first established his colonies here.

His men had often remarked they made night patrols more interesting with their thieving antics.

But something about this animal's eyes were off. It noticed him immediately and almost seemed to smirk.

He tried to dismiss it as the delirium of exhaustion and the luminescence common to nocturnal beasts but there was a wicked sort of intelligence there.

It crept over to the cauldron in the center of the cave and tipped it.

Chicken and vegetable soup sloshed over the the cave floor to a cacophony of screeches.

"Move them, we don't want them hurt. Aggie? Get the mops! Get the-fine, I'll do it!"

Arthur raced his way out into the woods, still half amazed that his legs and ankles didn't pain him and what speed was now his!

He half-wondered if Alfred would regret the healing when Arthur was able to easily catch him up after mischief?

He could envision the shock of his son and the tickle fight that would ensue and the-

The daydream of a happier future made the present moment much more somber.

Some holiday this all turned out to be.

His son was...gone...far from his reach and scheming...and...dangerous…and…

He ran a hand through his hair.

The rest of their family was in various degrees of conflict.

Who knew where Spain and Puerto Rico had wound up?

And he hadn't thought to try and swipe a cell phone on his way out.

Damnation.

When he felt he'd put enough distance between himself and them, he climbed a tree to better see the stars.

Navigating by constellations used to always bring him a spark of joy and adventure. Would remind him of sailing on the seven seas or dashing over grassy hills laughing at the water horse that couldn't catch him—

That way.

He needed to go that way.

He nearly fell off his branch when he realized the raccoon from earlier on the branch of a tree across from his.

Something in its glowing eyes let him know it was the same one.

And because it appeared to have knicked a bauble off of America's rucksack and was turning over the Marvel keychain in its hands.

It edged back a bit to lean nearer against the trunk and in the shadows morphed into something more manlike but all Arthur was able to glimpse was still the face of the raccoon, though it seemed more like a fur pelt worn over the head now.

This wasn't a fae, though it felt similar in some regards. Not of his land. His magic knew that at once and warned him against it. He'd have no command over it. And no inherent knowledge as to what it'd want or how to deal with it.

Wisdom told him to leave. Rhys would've told him to leave.

Arthur gathered his nerves. "Why did you help me?"

The creature seemed to shrug and, with a better command of English than Arthur had expected, answered with a chuckle, "You do not ask me WHO I am. That is well for I own many names. I help...because _you_ will help Dyami or whatever name he goes by now…"

It wasn't the moment for it, and likely a symptom of being overtired, but he felt pleased that the English language had become so prevalent that no interpreters were needed. "My Alfred."

"I don't forget past promises. And though there is much he has done to wrong...how is it your people phrase it? 'Me and mine'? In the years between...it does not undo the kindnesses and debts I owed him from before."

"I don't understand," Arthur replied. This could only be one of the creatures that had accompanied Lome sometime in his misadventures during 1814! He remembered something about that. God, anything he could learn from it was vital!

"He was a favorite of First Mother," the spirit explained as he tossed the keychain back and forth.

Damnation, Arthur. A little research on indigenous creation myths would've really helped here.

"First Mother?"

"Who...sacrificed herself to bring corn?"

"..."

The spirit seemed amused by his ignorance. "Anyways...He danced and the rows sprang to ripeness."

Arthur blinked. "Wot?"

"Harvest, pale one, harvest."

"Right." So his Alfred had done some sort of service to merit a favor.

"He danced for them who did not welcome him and did not invite him to stay for the feast."

"..."

"I pointed him to those desolate places. And now I point you to him."

"Ah, absolution." That he could understand. It was like providing ammunition for an ally rather than standing with him during the siege.

"Balance in all things, vistor. Balance in all." The spirit? Creature? Raccoon bloke? Jumped down to a lower branch. "Wlalmekw8gan."

"I will save him," Arthur vowed.

There was a laugh at that. "I am merciful and will not hold you to that. Guide him. That is all I ask and all he needs. More would be...asking for trouble."

Green eyes narrowed. It echoed too strongly of Alfred's various sentiments regarding "Enough." His fists clenched. He would save his child.

Another laugh followed. "You remind me of him. He would give me that look too. Oh...and tell him Coyote's still angry, but I'm not. Alright. Go then, on your way, brave warrior." He chuckled. "But be warned, he is a favorite, you see? Of the Great Spirit and the heavens...and all with ruthless ambition."

"..."

"To be blessed with these attentions is to be cursed."

"...Enlighten me," he growled.

"His life will never be ordinary...and so no one in his life...will _ever_ be safe."

The thing dropped down to the forest floor below, a beast once more, and then disappeared into the gloom.

Arthur stared after it.

He fought against the unsettlement that stirred in him. He sniffed. They were born as nations. Of course their lives were...set apart...different. There would be highs and lows. Always.

Near-immortality and semi-invulnerability promised that.

That thing didn't understand.

Arthur's heart couldn't hold regrets over that. He'd wanted the child too much for too long to ever be cowed. Even if it was ultimately a direly selfish wish; to have someone to love.

Even if his desires had brought his poor offspring into a world that was dangerous and cruel and as full of awe and splendor as it was of awful woe…

To regret that...would mean regretting _him…_

And even if the boy wasn't all sunshine and petals and his thorns could make his father's soul bleed…

Even if he was impetuous and combative and short-sighted and foolish…

Even if their rulers and responsibilities would ever be pulling them apart or putting them at odds with each other...

He thought of bonny blue eyes and wheat gold hair and a dimpled grin that brought him joy.

He pulled out his locket of the child.

No.

No, it couldn't be done.

He kissed the portrait miniature and returned it to the safety of his breast pocket.

He released a long breath and determinedly pulled his wand from the ether.

He gave a few practice twirls and then began spellcasting for a new shape. Changing form was necessary though exhausting and since the wings were artificial, there was always a sense of flimsiness to them—an awareness that should they fail, he'd be left plummeting to the ground below.

Maybe that was part of the price for constructing something against nature? He was meant to sail the seas not fly like a gull over them.

Morgana had always laughed at such limits.

He sighed, flexed the wings, and then left the branch.

The air was cold and the tree tops were dark and uninviting. And maybe it was because Morgana's magic had always been a bit more earthy and feral than his...it lingered in this form that she'd helped him create and he got the distinct feeling that the forest was sentient. And...observant.

They...knew...he was over them.

And he could almost persuade himself to believe the word "imposter" was uttered between them in various dialects.

Had they known Roanoke from the start? Had Alfred often been spirited between his island and Osha's settlements in his earliest years?

What he could be certain of was that while Alfred did have sway over them (as he'd shown with his entrapment of Mathieu), it was more that they were willing and Alfred's magic accommodating than that they were simple servile vessels.

It would be folly to think of them as golems. For all their anchoring roots, they were freer spirits by far. How much aid had woods like these given to America during their wars?

A campfire near the coordinates and Alfred's jubilant "Well done, Bro! They look awesome!" let him know he'd caught up.

He set down on a branch overlooking what appeared to be a small graveyard.

His jaw dropped. A bonfire? Really? Did Alfred live to be as unceremonious and disrespectful as possible?

Good God! He'd even dug one grave up!?

He was about to announce his presence and give the dressing down of a millennia when a poke to the ankle revealed Reilley sitting on a branch near his.

"Happy Beltane's Day and sit your arse down already, I seen enough tonight to not deserve your near flashin' me."

Arthur's face heated up. "The tunic covers!"

"Aye well, it covered better when you were a tween. And your legs ain't that fine, keep 'em to yerself."

Arthur rolled his eyes but did sit down for a moment to collect himself. The flight had winded him.

"Hope you don't get any splinters."

The only proper response was a two finger salute.

"I've been texting you-"

Arthur nodded. "We were captured by a coven of hags and our phones confiscated."

"So it wasn't a game o' 'Ignore the Irishman'?"

Arthur's eyebrows twitched. "Do you truly believe we're petty enough for that?"

"..."

"Good God, man."

"Well, are they on their way?" Reilley looked around for any sign or sound of approaching bodies.

"Rhys was breaking free when I left."

"You just up and left? What about Mattie-b-"

"White Witches. They contend that they were...protecting us...from…" He looked down into the clearing.

"Oh." Reilley was quiet for a moment before. "Alistair got captured by a White Witch?" Reilley snorted into his hand to smother the sound. "Oh that's something."

"How good to know that while we suffered, you sat in a tree and did nothing of note-"

"Oi. I took lots of notes and texted them to you. Found out oodles. But you got yourself into a bind and now I have to make up for it. Soooo, this is hallowed ground because there's a wee graveyard here, ghosts too, and the hags can't step on it. So I wager that also keeps them and theirs from openin' the gate back up on their own-"

"Anything more? Get me up to speed. On the double, man."

"Gettin' to it! It was in the texts! Oh, kay. Damn it all. I'd built it up all good too. Which was kinda necessary because I realize that I _am_ stalking but it's out of familial duty and not the creepy _Hamlet_ uncle kind-"

"Get _on_ with it."

"Righto. The um, the short, short, short version. Well, you know how Alfie-boy's kinda vain and self-centered?"

Arthur's teeth gnashed together audibly.

"I ain't bein' mean! I-I-he's a daffodil. Narcissus staring in the water, you follow me? Well, what do plants do to survive? They focus on themself and adapt."

Arthur raised a fist. "So help me if you don't come to a point in the next three seconds, I will deck you, you blockheaded, breath-wasting-"

"He's a shapeshifter!" Reilley blurted.

"Wot?"

"His first instinct in any kerfuffle is to throw himself at it. Why? Because he's his best tool. Because he can _**change**_ himself to complete a task. He funnels his magic through himself. That's why he fortified himself against the wendigo. That's why he transformed himself to be older when he had troubles with you. It wasn't time magic. It was _him_. He changed himself to make himself a stronger opponent. Probably wanted to be on equal footing with yeh if it came to fisticuffs."

He eyed Arthur's raised hand and the Briton let it drop.

"Clay and dust…" Genesis 3:19 reverberated through his mind: " _By the sweat of your brow you will eat your bread, until you return to the ground—because out of it were you taken. For dust you are, and to dust you shall return."_

 _Careful not to disturb the oxygen mask, Arthur gently rested his fingers against his son's face._

 _Only what should've been soft skin was brittle and cracks began spider-webbing out from where the tips of England's fingers had touched. He immediately retracted his hand, but the damage was done and that side of his face fell in like a shattered pot._

It had been dirt, clay, earth breaking under his fingertips as the spell holding it in a different shape faded. Alfred had gathered it up and slathered it over himself. He hadn't aged up to meet the shape...to make it into a reality.

He'd gotten...delayed...

"Exactly. It was a reshaping. He's always at the center of his plans. He has to be. It's cuz he's got a limited scope of magical ability. Shapeshifting and plants are his forte. Because he was one. That and a bunch of other un-unified bits and-look, he's not going to be able to do a lot of intricate or team-styled spellwork. Let alone long distance hexing. Too many conflicting elements to-"

It wasn't right to feel discouraged at hearing that, but the fact that there'd be a lot of magic he just couldn't share with his child…or perform with him jointly.

So much...

Alfred would never fire send.

He'd never be able to enchant a weapon he'd forged.

He wouldn't be able to summon anything or anyone.

The UnSeelies that did come when he called did so because they just liked being nearby. Any other time the idea of goblins and the like being virtual ladies-in-waiting would've amused him but now…

Knowing Alfred couldn't really call aid to himself…

The UnSeelies were just stormcrows eager to watch what happened to his child next…

His eyebrows twitched and, unbidden, he thought of raging WWE crowds chanting "Give 'im the chair" and supplying one.

"Don't go bellyaching about it. Trust me, man, if I'm right. You'll be damn well delighted that things went that way."

"Why?" he choked out. So much would be missed out on.

Reilley smirked and paused for dramatic effect. The pillock. "He _**WAS**_ too many things, Arthur."

"..."

"Remember? All that fluff that went into his making? Gunpowder and a compass and a feather and a daffodil and hell, there was probably sea breeze and—Cherokee was _riiight_. He shouldn't have survived it. Call it Danu's mercy. Call it fate's intervention. Call it God's will. The heavens gave him plantish adaptability as his chief means of survival. And he survives, Arthur. Like a weed."

"...Gardening powers...harvester."

"I know we usually think of them types as meek and mild. But mother's tad was one. Aye, there ain't much written about him, he lived in an age before all that but none of the ancients of the fae who do remember him do so without a shudder. He was a master of the forests, Artie. They had to drown him out of his power. Sink him-"

His poor little one. To be limited. Stunted. Magically.

Again, the image of a flower being swept away from too strong a tide filled his mind's eye and he felt helpless.

He shook his head.

"Honestly, Artie. If I wasn't so impressed, I'd be nervous. It's likely that the blight he did last Christmas was just a little tantrum and barely registered on the richter scale."

His poor little Roanoke armed only with flowers and sleeping under an open sky. He needed shelter and guidance and protection and care—

But he couldn't forget that raccoon-thing's laughter.

" _But be warned, he is a favorite, you see?_

 _Of the Great Spirit and the heavens..."_

" _His life will never be ordinary...and so no one in his life...will ever be safe._

"And you...figured this all out, how?"

"He transformed his hands to operate on you. And I watched him to change 'em back. He didn't even have to chant or anything. Because that's the kind of magic at his disposal. Naturally."

"Then how did he close the gate?"

Reilley's face puckered. "Look, I haven't figured out everything. I just shared what I-"

If what Reilley said was true, it should've been fundamentally beyond his skill.

But he obviously did it.

So how?

He stared again at the small toy soldier, which he only now recognized as one he'd carved himself.

The child really had gall.

To use something he'd made for love of him against him!

He started for it, but Reilley grabbed his arm. "Oh no you don't. Watch."

He reached a hand near the doll and flicked. Ripples spread out.

"Force field?! Who taught him that?"

"Not a force field, Artie. An exclusionary spell. Just us five aren't welcome. I'd wager those soldiers were made from wood from this forest and Alfie-boy's exploited that-"

"Well, he needs to unmagick that-"

"It's the woods, Artie. The woods are magic. And this so-called clearing? It's a literal Dara Knot Infinity Ring. The toys he found in that coffin. So he made them voodoo dolls years ago. When his magic was sickly. Nah, he's borrowing." Thick red eyebrows furrowed as if studying what he'd just said. "I dunno. Anyways, these little voodoo dolls are blocking us out. He did a bangup job on yours. It's right there."

Sure enough, a small toy soldier was dangling on a branch not far from them. Worn red cloth was affixed to it.

Paint had been added to give it an impressive set of eyebrows and a dark scowl.

It almost compared to the grim one on his face.

"Anything _**else**_ of note?" Arthur growled.

"Aye, you bet yer arse."

Arthur glared.

"I texted you! Wall o' text! Colonel Harris is the thin one. See him? Dead and right there, can you believe it? I dunno the rest o' his neighbors below but he's been bunking with a potent Gramarye and some of Al's crap. And I'm pretty sure there's an evil entity too, though it's concealing itself quite well. I know, I'm proud of me as well. I didn't leave even after I started sensin' it."

Arthur's eyes bulged.

"Yup, turns out there WAS a 'bad thing in the ground' indeed. And it's only talking to Alfie-boy. Special."

* * *

Texas leaned back on his haunches as he admired their handiwork.

Okay. Four creepy ass magic mirrors were up and standing! Take that Sphinx of Egypt!

Yeah, it wasn't the most beautiful repair job they'd ever done but it was good enough.

And yeah, they were kinda terrifying and less because the antique glass was darkened and spotted to all hell and back and more because they only reflected Al and nobody else.

But he was in too deep in it to back out now. C'mon Tex, ford that river!

Well, three of them scary mirrors reflected Al. The fourth didn't reflect anything at all.

And the three reflections that were present weren't Al here and now.

Mirror one and two had kiddie versions of Al in a child's gown.

The first had blackened spots obscuring the chest and was balancing a bushel of apples against his hip.

The second had cracks all through where Al's head should be and he cradled what looked like an armful of pinecones.

The third was a teenager and had a shard missing through over half of its face and held wheat between its fingers almost like a quill.

It gradually dawned on him that the landscape behind each Al was in different seasons.

He stared hard at number four and its clear bright sky and caught sight of the asymmetry of the bottom.

Damn thing had snapped off. No wonder it had been the hardest one to prop up. He returned to the coffin and searched it again.

He was successful but bought it at personal cost.

He swore loudly and inspected his thumb. He wrapped a bandanna around the deep cut and grumbled about needing a tetanus shot. He then gingerly pulled the section out and carried it over.

He wrapped the whole thing with duct tape using a stick to brace the back.

"There you are."

It was strange. The other three reflections were standing.

This one though.

"C'mon, slacker." He tapped at the glass.

The figure was slumped over on the ground beside a pond or something among an almost absurd amount of greenery. One hand was in the water near a floating lily.

And he was the only one who was Al's current age.

His eyes were closed and a flower crown rested haphazardly on him.

He knocked on the image. "Wake up."

Oddly enough, the other reflections turned and eyeballed Tex then.

"Eep." He shuddered.

But they were still Al. Soooo...he couldn't be afraid. He wouldn't.

He...

His throat went dry and he carefully reached for the bone knife Scotland had entrusted him with for training. (And that he kinda misused puncturing a raft instead.)

It was an object of power, he'd been told. And a means for him to channel and conduct his magic through until the cosmos had decided he was ready to have his own personal one. Or somethin' like that.

He swallowed and took in a deep breath.

His fingers began to tingle as the knife began thrumming.

This was about more than acknowledging his own power; it was about embracing it. No longer straddling the line between spheres and crossing over. Because he wanted to be a part of this world. With Al.

He gripped the hilt hard and bet his everything and finally felt...magic in his fingertips.

And he knew just what to do with it.

"Meet me halfway," Tex breathed.

That was always their deal...which had long ago stopped being a compromise and was the best promise they could make.

"Cuz I'll always meet you there," the Texan vowed.

He tapped the glass for a third time with the knife.

Glowing electric blue eyes snapped open.

Alfred gasped.

And Tex turned. "Al! Allie, I-"

It was hard to contain. He finally felt his brother. And hot damn! He was riiiiiight there! They felt as close as all the times they'd been tied up together back-to-back. This had to be the connection that Arthur had gotten to lord over him! Well now Texas was on the scene, y'all!

Hell to the power of YEAH! "Al!?"

He rushed over to him.

Alfred stared around the clearing and mumbled, "I remember."

Shouldn't that have been a good thing?

"Al?"

Nothing showed on his brother's face, but any demands for explanations or congratulations died on his tongue at the flare of emotion near him.

"Allie…?"

"...I remember...why I wanted to forget."

* * *

Read & Review Please! : DDD


	50. Chapter 50

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Or the Malleus Maleficarum. Or the following quotes: "No sadness is greater than in misery to rehearse memories of joy" and "For it is no easy undertaking, I say, to describe the bottom of the Universe; nor is it for tongues that only babble child's play" from Dante's Inferno. Or Leviticus 20:27: _"_ _A man also or woman that hath a familiar spirit, or that is a wizard, shall surely be put to death."_

 **Warning:** Profanity! Violence! Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, linguistically, and grammatically). PART ONE of a MASSIVE flashback that took me forever to chronologically weave together!

 **Special Warning:** Somewhat graphic violence alluded to and, more to the point, emotional abuse, abuses of power, and cruelty to witches.

 **AN:** Hey everybody! Thank you for your patience. RL has been…chaos. And I didn't want to rush this. And now!

 **Chapter 50:** **The Strangest and Most Blasphemous Wish**

* * *

It was a strange and terrible sadness to feel one's world end twice.

It would almost be darkly wondrous if wasn't so bloody horrifying.

That anything could be just as awful the second time around as it had been the first…

Alfred tried to focus on breathing, as if the right measure of air could tourniquet his spirit.

Texas moved toward him. "Allie, talk to me. Whatever it is. We'll deal."

It was so…naïve…

It took enormous willpower to face him. "I'm…"

Come on, America…it was too late for regret.

"I'm…"

He swallowed. He'd asked for this. For it all. From start to finish to now. "I'm the bad guy."

There. It was done.

"Yeah?" Tex raised a dark eyebrow.

He nodded determinedly. "I…" He nodded to the surrounding graves. "I-I did this. I'm the bad guy."

"Prove it."

He almost tripped against a root. "Wha?"

Tex tilted his chin up stubbornly. "I didn't stutter, cowpoke. PROVE it."

"…"

"Tell me."

Except…words always seemed to fail him when he needed them most.

But there was a tingling of energy between them now that hadn't been there before.

And it was Texas. Texas. Tejas.

Who'd always seen him with the sharpest, meanest eyes.

The ones he couldn't trick.

And because they could never be tricked, they always saw him as he was and never as more. And so they could never be disappointed.

There was no point in lying.

He reached for his brother's hand.

* * *

" _Dearest Father and Bro-" Alfred Faer Kirkland hastily scribbled the line out as he leaned against the trunk of his and Arthur's favorite tree._

 _His cheeks puffed with frustration and he frowned at his latest draft. If only words graced him the way they did Arthur…_

 _And Alfred fancied himself a poet! Why was letter writing so difficult?_

 _Much harder than verses…_

 _And here he had a missive of such import! News so wonderful it leapt about in his chest like a wild, caged thing, it should've sprung from his quill at the earliest opportunity._

 _Instead, the message lingered almost like dread and was more demanding than hunger. No quaint sentence would do._

 _A lieutenant. Him! He longed to share it but…_

 _Part of him knew Father could take too much excitement on his part as a sign of ill breeding. Gentlemen, like them, were supposed to pride themselves on their ability to remain cool and level headed. O it would be wonderfully subtle and sophisticated if he only made mention of it in the signing of his name, but he was too overjoyed for his promotion to partake in such games._

 _And while he could've filled the body of the composition with his passion for agriculture, he doubted Arthur would read to the bottom and then it would be missed entirely!_

 _Surely, enough time had passed? His family would be proud of his achievement and eager to attend the ceremony? That wasn't so much, was it?_

 _Though they hadn't accepted any of his invitations to prior birthdays celebrating his independence…_

 _Patience, Alfred! He had desperate need of patience._

 _Though, performing a charm or two wouldn't hurt. Osha would say such things were a waste of magic when Raweno was the ultimate decider of things but…_

 _Alfred fidgeted and yes…he might well be squandering what magic was still his to command…but…_

 _He sighed._

 _If Father would just come already…they could figure out what was wrong with his magic and their family and-and EVERYTHING. Everything could be set to rights if Father would just swallow his pride already!_

 _He sniffed. One would think after having participated in so many wars, theirs would be nearly beneath notice for the older nation!_

 _Ultimately, it would take three tries but he wrote out the letter to satisfaction and for luck, and a pinch of sentimentality, pressed a flower from his homestead into the parchment and sealed the envelope._

 _Father loved getting such things from him—proofs of his care._

888888

 _Alfred selected another book from the roughhewn wood of Father's bookcase. He was determined to safely transfer Father's books to the new house. He wrinkled his nose at the small walls of the cabin. Soon he'd sell this dismal place and say farewell to its host of bad memories._

 _Samuel, his fellow lieutenant and friend, was helping him fill a trunk. The young man was reaching for an archaic green one bound by leather. It had two leather belt buckles keeping it closed._

" _I would not touch that one, were I you, Samuel," Alfred murmured._

" _Oh? And why is that?" the man asked as he set a hand on it._

" _Sharp pages."_

 _He'd barely finished explaining when his friend, hissed at a deep papercut._

" _Warned you," Alfred replied in a singsong voice._

 _Samuel sucked at the injury and hissed as he looked at the damage._

 _It was one of Father's spellbooks and it did that to dissuade nonmagic users from taking interest in it. Quite practical._

 _Unfortunately, as Alfred's magic waned, it sometimes injured him too. Perhaps when Father got over his wounded vanity, they could see about addressing that. There_ _ **had**_ _to be a cure._

 _He was loathe to reveal the aging spell he'd managed to cast in the 1770s, but...if it was aggravating his condition...then he'd have to come clean._

 _And then he'd have to hear a long, boring lecture about the dangers of shapeshifting and being unready for the horrors of the battlefield and how age and maturity were things to be earned and a few more years without the glamour of fancy ballroom food and dancing would hardly harm him and all that tripe. Uncle Rhys would probably join him._

 _No matter. After Father saw the Hall, Alfred would be sure to earn back his regard._

 _Then Mathieu could eat a good, hearty slice of humble pie._

 _Treating Alfred like he was a leper. No. Like he was the "fallen one" of their household. Humph. He'd only done what was necessary for his people's sake and to show he was a nation worthy of respect too._

 _Father was an Empire! He would understand. In the grand picture (whether America liked it or not and he didn't because it trivialized the noble sacrifices his people made), America's whole Revolution was tantamount to treading on England's foot. Irksome, perhaps, but nothing the man couldn't get over._

" _So you're packing?" Sam muttered as he wrapped a handkerchief around his thumb._

" _Aye, I'm taking them to the house."_

" _Ah yes, your mysterious chateau," the older teenager grinned._

" _Hardly. There just isn't a road paved to it, yet. I'm still hopeful I may cut cost and pave it myself."_

" _So pennypinching."_

" _I prefer the term: spendthrift."_

 _Samuel pushed sandy fringe out of his eyes. "Rumor has it, that it's quite a palace."_

" _A gross exaggeration."_

" _How could it not be? You spend all your off hours laboring over it. I wish to see it."_

" _You would be disappointed. Perhaps some other time when it's nearer to completion."_

 _Alfred took care to set a large Bible over the spellbook and obscure it from view._

 _He had to have Father over first._

 _Father would help him outfit the house in such a way that items like these wouldn't arouse suspicion. Ever since Salem, Father had been rather protective of him in matters like these. And to think, he hadn't even told the man he'd been caught before._

 _He wasn't entirely sure why he persisted to wait. Perhaps, it was instinctively strategic? It was a story certain to win Arthur's sympathies. He had a strong suspicion Arthur might've experienced one of those awful witch burnings._

 _Mayhaps, it was a bit manipulative. But it'd be wise to save that one for the midst of a row and then spring it._

 _Delighted at the prospect of winning, or perhaps stagnating, a future argument, Alfred invited Samuel for a friendly race—surely, their horses and them would enjoy the exercise?_

 _They'd been shut in all morning and he longed for some fresh air._

 _Plus, Father had always been proud of Alfred's horsemanship; it wouldn't do to neglect such a skill before he finally deigned to visit._

* * *

 _Lieutenant wasn't that grand a title; he scolded himself once more as he washed his face in the basin._

 _Not to someone like Arthur who'd been in more battles than Alfred could hope to count. Were there even words for numbers that went so high?_

 _He was an admiral._

 _Alfred buttoned his uniform and eyed the lack of decorations adorning it._

 _It was actually rather childish to think he would have taken a several week journey across the Atlantic for so low a rank. (Though it hurt more than he thought it would for Mathieu to ignore him as well. Alfred had always sent his congratulations for his brother's promotions whenever he was made aware of them. Would've gone if he'd ever been invited…)_

 _Yes, it had been absurd to think Father would come for such a thing, he mused later as he reported to his commanding officer._

 _An insult, probably._

 _He was waiting for something grander._

 _He needed to be impressed. Genuinely._

 _And then he could return._

 _Otherwise, it would seem like he had a soft spot for America and that would cast him in a bad light._

 _Father was terribly conscious of how others viewed him._

 _Alfred had to show he was worthy._

 _The young men snapped to attention with a salute and Alfred realized belatedly that he'd tuned out of the better part of an introduction. Who was he saluting?_

" _That's Colonel Bertram Harris," Samuel informed him out of the corner of his mouth—guessing his source of anxiety and sounding a bit more amused than the moment merited._

 _Alfred held in a sigh; his face always gave him away._

 _He tried harder to be respectable and upright._

 _The man moved, perhaps not with grace, but surety._

 _There was something admirable in the hard lines of his form, the crispness of his uniform, the set of his fiery eyes and stony jaw._

 _They looked nothing alike. But there was something in the disciplined footfall and movement that reminded him of Arthur. And quite suddenly, he was desperate to prove himself to the colonel._

* * *

" _Was that your best, Lieutenant?" Colonel Harris asked in the gleam of dawn._

 _It took great will for his shoulders not to slump. He thought he'd done quite well. Only two other riflemen had outshot him._

" _Yessir."_

" _I would hope our nation would have the discipline necessary to exceed at all that is expected of him."_

" _Yessir."_

 _The man was right._

 _Efficiency. Precision. He led by example._

 _Could outshoot Alfred easily._

 _And the blonde stood by and stared as it was done._

 _But_ _Alfred F. Kirkland was determined to win the colonel's respect. He just needed time. Time always abetted him. During the Revolution, plenty of men had doubted his capabilities. Time wore them down or opened them up._

 _He'd lost count of all the men that had remarked upon first meeting him that he wasn't special._

 _He wasn't._

 _Not in the usual sense._

 _The only thing that let him stand apart was his determination._

 _Anyone else would have let constant failure dissuade them._

 _Not him._

 _And bit by bit he'd improve at whatever it was; from violin to musket to anything really._

 _It was a belligerent quality that ultimately endeared him to most humans...just not right away._

 _Colonel Harris would learn to regard him as an asset. Would learn that his determination was limitless._

 _Didn't Alfred want that? To be known for that?_

 _Men like Alistair and Arthur made it a point to always hone their skills. Why Rhys still kept up at archery while it was obvious that guns were the pinnacle of sophisticated warfare!_

 _If he ever hoped to be near them, he couldn't allow for any slack!_

" _I think you are in need of practice, lieutenant. Continue until I relieve you."_

" _Yessir."_

 _It was nightfall when Samuel convinced a Brigadier General to override the order and send Alfred home to rest._

* * *

 _Alfred hung the painting in Father's room. It took him a few attempts to center it correctly upon the wall. He eyed the chandelier hanging in the Master Bedroom. Why, with some lavish drapes, he may yet reach the level of opulence the Empire was growing so accustomed to._

 _Just imagining his father's delight that he managed it, made him smile. He'd deliver the key when next they met. Maybe over tea, though Alfred hadn't really enjoyed it since the infamous "Party." Still, while the beverage no longer pleased him, he could easily endure…for it was the company he truly wanted. Such a scene would bring to mind a wealth of other happy afternoons and they could reminisce._

 _His smile faltered._

 _Harris often complained that if he remained too sentimental, he'd value everything and nothing and no one would appoint leadership roles to him. Because he couldn't prioritize._

 _And if he couldn't prioritize, he couldn't be trusted._

 _Didn't he want to be shaped into something great and worthy? Someone of importance?_

 _He was certain Harris only wanted what was best for him...for everyone's sake._

 _Alfred stared at the painting—eyes lingering on Arthur's hand atop his double's shoulder. When they'd posed for it, he'd received such a gentle squeeze and a compliment on his poise and patience. There'd been such warmth in his voice when he'd said:_

" _You're being so good and grownup, Sweet…I'm proud-"_

 _Harris just didn't understand how nations operated!_

 _They had time on their side. This was a meaningful relationship that would outlast all who governed them!_

* * *

 _Harris was a man who didn't yield._

 _Father would say he was beastly and his eyebrows would look like angry thunderclouds as he growled it._

 _Daydreams of that sort made Alfred smile._

 _He fancied he could see how it would all unfold._

 _Alfred would arrive for tea and the man would ask him how he fared. And he'd tell. O he'd tell it all._

 _And Father's indignation on his behalf would be a balm to his still sore and smarting frame._

 _From the training he was receiving from Harris, he'd swiftly realized with humiliation that Alistair, and even Prussia, often went easy on him._

 _Still…_

 _Pain, humiliation, fatigue…these were all things he could manage._

 _It was the terrible things he had to say about Father that hurt him deeper._

 _True, he'd heard them time and again during the Revolution, but it seemed so personal…to be in the middle of fighting someone and having them spit malicious facts unprovoked._

 _Too often Harris tallied the lives lost in various battles._

 _Too gladly he gave details about the floating prisons England had made for captured rebels…_

 _To think…when America had been very small, he'd thought ships were Water-Father's gifts to him…proofs of love and not symbols of the other's power..._

 _If ships had made him uncomfortable before…now…_

 _And all the cruel truths always caught him off-guard and the man exploited it._

" _Your heart is a liability," he'd sneer as he loomed over Alfred's fallen form._

 _It had circled through his head endlessly on his voyage over to the United Kingdom and it rocked him worse than the waves._

 _The sea just made him ill, the possibility of those words being true made him feel poisoned._

 _Father had always insisted Alfred's heart was one of his best qualities._

 _But Father had been wrong before._

 _The Revolution was proof of that._

 _Acknowledging that was like having a leak spring in his heart._

 _And only the tenderest of memories could seal it up._

 _Father loved him._

 _They would prove Harris wrong._

 _America would handle the matter of impressment; he'd make it known how injured it made him._

 _Yes; he would soon win back Father with diplomacy and generosity and once their personal bonds were mended, it only stood to reason that their governments' relationship would follow._

 _His efforts with the house would be more than enough._

 _The key weighing down his pocket would unlock all the troubles fencing them in._

* * *

" _So you have a Mrs. Weatherby, now. That's wonderful, Samuel. It's probably the first bit of good news I've heard upon my return," Alfred replied with real cheer. And wasn't it good to feel a bit of real gladness?_

 _The young man smiled bashfully and readjusted the modest wedding ring on his finger. "I've a modest salary but a promotion or two should see us living comfortably."_

 _Alfred raised his tankard to that and Samuel clinked them together._

 _Each took a deep sip of ale. It was cheap and a tad bitter, and it was a small annoyance for he could've afforded better what with his own salary and the generous sum Father had left him (or he thought Father had left him, the man never returned for it...so Father must've intended him to have it. If it was his to use while he'd been a colony, it was his to use as a nation), but he was trying very hard to be considerate of Samuel._

 _He'd make a point to create a charm for his friend and his household. His father and uncles would probably be better at it, but he'd do what he could to ensure good luck and prosperity for his friend and his new bride. The trick was blending the design into something innocuous._

 _Given the man's almost fervent devotion to church service, Alfred was more than a little leery of confessing his leanings towards witchcraft...lest another Salem-like spectacle break out._

 _And perhaps he was also fearful of a demand for a demonstration, given his weakening ties to the craft._

 _Arthur had promised to help him restore his Sight. But considering the tension between them following the Revolution and now the overture of what seemed very much like another war...it was becoming increasingly likely that England would be glad to see him depowered._

 _He'd be less of a threat._

 _It sent a chill down his spine...thinking like that...thinking of the hexes his family could send his way. He'd be at their mercy._

 _No!_

 _No...Father wouldn't allow it...would he?_

 _He stared down into his ale._

 _Arthur had always seemed so genuinely happy at the prospect of instructing him personally in the occult. As a result, Alfred had dawdled quite a bit (waiting for him to return) and only delved in fairly mild spellcasting. Though...self-preservation also had a hand in it; when he overexerted himself, he found his Sight and, well, even his hearing to be affected._

 _The tankard in hand was cheap and the tin was slightly misshapen from his gripping it too hard._

 _Father would say it was 'Poor craftsmanship' and likely wouldn't handle it at all._

 _It was why he had to go to such lengths to ensure high quality._

 _Another chandelier for the estate would be arriving the next week; he'd made the order ages ago. He liked to think that if he could just have a moment alone with Arthur, they could reconcile. He could take him to the house and…_

 _And…_

 _He blew out a frustrated breath; Father's ire couldn't possibly win out against the painstaking care he'd taken in designing the manor._

 _His reflection rippled as he set the tankard down._

 _His ire couldn't hold...Father adored him._

 _He remembered meadows and flower crowns and smiling green eyes..._

 _Declarations and actions that proved the man's affections..._

 _Yes._

 _Father adored him._

 _Could barely level a musket at his chest even with all of America's men (traitors no doubt in England's eyes) watching...expecting the seasoned soldier not to bend._

 _And he sunk to his knees in the mud, overcome with emotion._

 _Couldn't do it._

 _Could never do it._

 _Would never harm him...because..._

 _Father adored him._

 _Yes, he hadn't gotten the reception needed to deliver the key...but he could mail it if need be. Though it would rob him of seeing the other's response._

 _He'd also lose the chance to address the uncivil treatment he'd been receiving. Father would probably be angry that Mathieu and his uncles were treating him so roughly. Alistair had elbowed him hard enough during a trade meeting to still have bruises._

 _He ought to write Father about that, he mused petulantly._

 _He thought of the portrait he'd hung in Father's room; just because their countries were separated didn't mean their bonds needed to be fully torn asunder._

 _His first war made sense; he had to claim his independence. This one, though. This one was so hard for him to understand. He knew he was being insulted and he had to act to assert himself...his sovereignty...but…_

 _It was difficult to dedicate himself to service. His heart just wasn't quite in it. He just wanted Father to see him...as the upright, capable nation he was. And maybe get Canada to join him._

 _Surely, his brother uniting with him was the best possible case. The sort of liberty America was promoting could only make his brother's lands a better place. And it wasn't like there wasn't a precedent for such actions. England was united with his brothers in an alliance. America would do the same. They'd be a North American empire!_

 _O think of that!_

 _And he'd let Mathieu choose which bedroom he wanted in the manor; one facing the north or maybe he'd prefer the one further down—he sometimes complained at the volume of noise Alfred could make as he paced his room for ideas. Yes, he just needed his brother on his side. The Canadian was better with words anyway and once they were together, they'd be able to negotiate with the United Kingdom._

 _He straightened the cufflinks on his uniform. He looked the part, didn't he? Upright? Capable? Composed?_

 _His uniform was always pressed, his boots polished to a high shine._

 _He loved catching his reflection in all things that gleamed._

 _Father should be proud to claim him under his legacy._

* * *

 _He wasn't…_

 _The best sportsman…_

 _Had never been…_

 _Particularly graceful at losing._

 _Worse._

 _It seemed to be a trend he couldn't shake free of._

 _Issuing another statement of war during a meeting of nations…_

 _England and his brothers took it unflinchingly._

 _Like America was no one to them._

 _The key he kept carrying in his pocket for every time they'd meet up felt like an anchor eager to drown him._

 _But taking it out and leaving it at home in his desk would mean surrendering to the reality that his future with them would be over._

 _He wasn't good at giving up._

 _Even when he'd lost so blatantly._

 _Kept losing…even when he won…_

 _At the ruins of York, having finally broken free from the Mississaugas with Osha's intervention on his behalf (that America couldn't be adopted because he was already on her fireside), he arrived in time to find chaos._

 _He hadn't expected to find a battle raging or the heartrending horror of seeing Mathieu (personally) attacking his Americans._

 _He'd charged in._

 _He'd learn later…after…that his Americans had fought first but…_

 _In their next battles…_

 _He just…_

 _He couldn't see past the fact that they'd gang up on him on the battlefield._

 _His uncles and brother…_

 _The first time he'd been more than shocked; he'd stared for half a beat hopefully at Reilley who seemed to regret the moment._

 _And the redhead shook his head slowly…_

 _And then they'd tried to fight him into submission; he'd been forced to flee into the woods. Woods always sheltered him._

 _And there under their cover grief started to eat at him like lye._

 _But he still had Rhys and Father._

 _They would understand. Had to. They had to be enough._

 _To keep his fractured heart together._

* * *

 _Everything kept falling away from him until he was a have-nothing-no-name once more._

" _Again? You choose him again? You're just like Canada! Why?" His voice cracked and he sank to his knees. "Why do you all side with him? Why? Why do you all want to see me fall?"_

 _"_ _Dyami, in our every deliberation, we must consider the impact of our decisions on the next seven generations. I am bound to my land and to my people, I cannot forsake my duties even for y-"_

 _Osha and her people. Never Osha and Alfred and their people._

" _Never," he vowed—catching her eye as he looked up at her from his spot—kneeling before her._

 _She frowned._

" _You will_ _ **never**_ _see me thus, again."_

 _It was more than a promise. Deeper than blood and bone. It was more like a comment from the Cosmos itself and he was just a mouthpiece._

 _He rose and left. To Hell with ceremony and respect he was expected to give and never receive._

 _The fear and the anger and the sadness he could take. It was the darker something that began to lap at his feet._

 _And it sizzled and hissed whenever he reflected that…_

 _Mathieu chose Arthur over him._

 _His uncles chose Arthur over him._

 _Tejas…_

 _Tejas, who America just had an inexplicably good feeling about, was willing to trade with him but didn't seem overly interested in having yet another brother._

 _Apparently, he had many and his expression suggested that it was a matter of supply and demand._

 _When you were surrounded by them, they didn't feel so dear and valuable._

 _Truly, he said their crowding presence bothered him._

 _It was like Tejas had never felt lonely in his life._

 _What America would give for such a thing…_

 _For a crushing grief was on him and he longed to be free. Of it all._

 _For he was tired in ways he'd never been before._

 _Mathieu wouldn't see him._

 _Alistair and Reilley were set against him._

 _And even Rhys…_

 _Blue eyes narrowed and the flickering light of flames in the harbor cast dark shadows on the youth's face. "You came for me."_

 _Wales was to the point. "Yes."_

 _He'd then drawn his knife and demanded Alfred's unconditional surrender._

 _It had been bitter work—pressing the bit of bloodied trouser he'd torn from his uncle's leg when they fought into the wax covering the blond toy soldier._

 _He set the dolls around the house so he'd have some degree of safety from his enemies breaking in on him unawares._

 _It made his skin crawl to need charms like these._

 _They were supposed to be family. To be welcome in his home. Always._

" _Home" seemed like a shallow word now. One he thought he knew the definition of and now knew better._

 _His newly constructed house would be the first to be haunted with what would never happen in it._

 _There would be no gatherings in its freshly painted walls. No balls or galas on its polished floors…_

 _Alfred stared dully at Father's room. He had done so much to make it comfortable. He looked over the ornate furnishings, at the overpriced rug, at the waxed floor. He briefly rested a hand against his bandaged chest. Even two weeks later, he could scarcely believe…_

 _The wound throbbed._

 _He understood when they fought to repel him from invading Canada's lands but…_

 _On his own soil...and when he'd been so outnumbered…_

 _Had it truly been necessary for Uncle Rhys to…_

 _No._

 _Wales._

 _His name was Wales._

 _He touched the healing spot again. Harder this time, as if rebuking the weakened area._

 _He thought of harp melodies and moonlit dances and whimsical stories and palm reading and soothing walks through forests and fields...all amounting to nothing._

 _Wales was an enemy._

 _Blood stained the tips of his white gloved fingers._

 _If being family wasn't enough…_

 _He looked around the room again—his gaze sliding over the trimmings to the crystal chandelier to the flag by the window._

 _His best things. The best his labor and his finances and his hopes could secure. And his best seemed cheap then. His best was nothing compared to villas and manors and castles an ocean away. And what an idiot he'd been to think otherwise._

 _Everything seemed small. Vulgar. Breakable. Arranged. Like he was standing in a crude dollhouse of his own design playing out an afternoon's whimsy._

 _Deluding himself._

 _If being family wasn't enough..._

 _It begat a horrible creeping dread; a realization he wished never to undertake or understand. One that made the future yawn forth like a terrible chasm._

 _One that made his soul tremble and his heart…_

 _His heart...which he'd always cast so much faith in…_

 _Depended on for its steadiness and reveled in its strength…_

 _Faltered…_

 _As it never had before._

 _When he'd first pulled Rhys's knife from his shoulder…_

 _While he_ _sat on the floor of the music room, he'd been part outraged, part vindicated, morbidly fascinated, and wholly horrified at his own circumstances. Helpless. Hopeless...as all his worst fears came true. And he understood now...Dante's Inferno...he understood now..._

" _For it is no easy undertaking, I say,_

 _to describe the bottom of the Universe;_

 _nor is it for tongues that only babble child's play."_

 _His stomach kept flopping as the feeling of falling never ceased. He focused on his breathing to achieve a false, enforced sense of calm as what little magic he had at his disposal was employed to knit the muscle, fractured collar bone, and skin._

 _There would be no happy endings here._

 _His family was turning on him._

 _There were no safe places anymore._

 _Nothing was sacred._

 _Harris was right._

 _Sorrow drove him to the pub and he sank through memories and ale and got the brilliant idea to trot over to the Library of Congress and grab a good book. The best book. He'd lent them his copy of Sir Gawain and tonight he had need of it._

 _Because it was probably the only story he could depend on where good intentions were acknowledged and failure just made someone more honorable rather than less._

 _He hadn't known Harris had been watching him all night and was disgusted by what he'd seen. How cowed…how beaten down by his experiences America was._

" _I'm doing all I can," he protested weakly._

 _He was slammed against the wall by the neck. "Are you? Are you truly?!"_

 _There was no give in the hand's harsh grip. It pressed hard against his Adam's apple and made him gag._

 _"Pathetic._ _You'll never best him with a sword. Never…"_

 _That was unfair; he'd never needed to before this moment. Because he'd never really thought it could come to pass._

 _He'd been so certain._

 _So very certain._

 _They cursed him for the fool he was._

 _And there was no pity anywhere to be had._

 _"I'm doing all that I can..." he mumbled. "What more can I...give…?"_

 _"_ _These men have given all they had and more..."_

 _Harris's eyes narrowed and the hand's hold tightened._ _"_ _You'll never best him with a sword. Can't even best a man." The teenager doubled over at the brutal punch, the man delivered._

 _What more could he give?_

 _What more could be taken?_

 _He sank deeper into the feeling he couldn't name._

* * *

 _An early spring sunset filtered weak pink light through the windows._

 _Alfred stood stock still. His blue eyes were wide, his face was pale, and a dark cape was set haphazardly on his shoulders._

 _In his hand, he held a small pot of evergreen holly. The sproutling was fresh and new._

 _Stubs of candles and incense added to the mystical atmosphere._

 _Feathers and beads and ornaments of both English and Iroquoian design dangled over the hearth's mantle and a great cauldron bubbled and foamed._

" _You!" Samuel hissed. "All that talk! And you're one too! You speak of them as Devils. When you're no different. Worse. You're one in plain sight. In. Plain. Sight! Deceiving us all."_

" _I've no choice!" Alfred snapped. "All I do, I do for you! For your kind! And this is holly, you idgit! It protects-"_

 _Samuel's gray eyes narrowed into slits. "You must be mad to think we'd suffer a witch in our midst!"_

" _I heard shouting," Colonel Harris remarked as he entered._

 _Samuel strode over to the colonel. "Lieutenant Kirkland is a witch. And should be hanged with all due haste."_

 _The bearded colonel appraised the younger teenager. "That true, boy?"_

 _Alfred grabbed an iron poker as a makeshift weapon. He took a step back and clutched his potted plant protectively._

 _The older man laughed. "Well, if that ain't confirmation?"_

 _Samuel clasped his hands behind his back and stared down his nose at his former friend._

" _Weatherby."_

" _Sir?"_

" _Go tend my horse."_

" _Sir?! I'm not certain it's safe to leave you with-"_

" _Now." He dismissed the lieutenant._

 _The young man left, though not without giving several furtive glances behind him._

" _So," the man began—tapping a white beaded string of leather and watching it swing to and fro. "Our nation's a witch. Guess those Bostonians were onto something."_

 _America's lips pursed into a thin, grim line and to his shock Harris grinned._

" _About damned time you were useful."_

* * *

 _He wasn't a bad witch. No white witch to be certain._

 _But he wasn't overly malevolent._

 _He didn't go casting night terrors and spoiling milk; he didn't terrorize children now that he understood them and what frightened them better._

 _He followed the rules as best he could._

 _Lived in the hinterlands. Always. In the cabin. In the new house. And he always took care to surround himself with signs even the non-supernaturally sensible could pick up on; birds, cats, hares, goats, and the like._

 _One had to go out of their way to find him._

 _And he only ever disturbed those who wronged him first, like King George III. And maybe Alfred's ill will had given more misfortune than he intended but…_

 _He'd gone and soured things between him and Arthur…maybe forever…_

 _Was America really supposed to just accept that?_

 _Was it fair to accept he was always to be the outcast?_

 _First with Osha and the other tribes, then with Arthur and Europe, and now?_

 _Alfred looked around the room; officers and clerks glanced back with suspicion—conversations stopped mid-word._

 _Samuel and his expecting wife avoided him._

 _Even the deists seemed weary of him._

 _Doing business with tradesmen in town became more difficult—purchases were harder to make, goods got damaged, poorer cuts of meat were given._

 _They didn't understand. Ill will directed at him, rained back tenfold, typically agriculturally and so food shortages abounded._

 _Magic demanded balance._

 _He wasn't good at containing a blight and Osha's old advice to find barren rocky or sandy places, where he couldn't cause significant damage, wasn't possible._

 _He couldn't just abandon his post for days at a time; his diligence to his duty was one of the last things he had left!_

 _But O how he grew afraid for them and himself._

 _His contact with humans lessened to such a degree that it came to pass that Colonel Harris was the only one who regularly communicated to him without fear._

 _He had no place in society, wasn't even welcome on the fringes of it anymore._

 _Even Alfred's president was hesitant to grant him audiences._

 _He wasn't just…inhuman…he was a witch…_

 _So…there was no one._

 _There was no one!_

 _There was only Colonel Harris who didn't mind._

 _The fireplace was experiencing a bad downdraft but he didn't want to embarrass himself by coughing in such a tense atmosphere._

 _"_ _Witch. Nation. Monster. I don't give a damn what you are, Lieutenant. But you're going to be loyal to us," Colonel Harris growled, a gleam in his eyes that put a chill and a tremble in the young nation. "You're going to be loyal or so help me I'll sink you in a grave so deep, you'll never trouble us again."_

 _Gooseflesh rose on his arms._

 _But Bertram Harris was a fierce man. An inferno and he had a way of blazing through all around him._

 _The instinct was to run but the world closed in._

 _There was nowhere to go and America had to learn how to live in the cramped space._

 _The feeling he couldn't name climbed until it was chest high and flooded his lungs with weight._

* * *

 _Colonel Harris was fascinating in that he was totally enthralled and repulsed by magic._

 _There was too much beauty and terror to behold in it._

 _And he was obsessed about the Gate which Alfred only knew so much about._

 _And maybe it was because he was stupid and lonely and Father wasn't answering his letters and the silence was eating through him that he chattered endlessly and told the man entirely too much about magic and about himself._

 _Because he was there._

 _He was there._

 _He was there._

 _And sometimes he called him, "Son."_

 _And that was a stupid reason to do anything._

 _Let alone to go chasing shadows._

 _But he'd never been wise._

 _And he didn't really think they'd succeed._

 _But the Heavens had a way of making things happen for America even when they shouldn't…_

 _The woods were dark and the sky was threatening as he raced along with a_ _scared and swearing Samuel behind him. Alfred looked ahead to where Colonel Harris was pulling ahead._

 _It was hard to gauge the time. Would they make it? Would they be too late?_

 _Did he want them to? What did he really want?_

 _Perhaps it was the absurdity of his plan._

 _The ever lingering desperation that dogged his steps._

 _Perhaps it was the apathy growing in his breast which seemed every bit as poisonous as the bouts of fury which kept eating at him at inopportune moments._

 _He wouldn't be able to keep up a charade of adulthood if he succumbed to tantrums. God, it was difficult._

 _Part of him kept wanting to storm Canada's border again and demand a family meeting, force an apology, get answers, ask them how they could take advantage of him like this?_

 _To...to trick him into thinking that they...that they really...when they didn't…_

 _Manipulated._

 _But he didn't think he could take it if they started laughing at him._

 _And he didn't want to weep like a child._

 _Like a pitiful child. Like the weak child he was…_

 _Children didn't win wars._

 _And winning was paramount._

 _Even when it made him want to vomit._

 _Harris calmly reloaded his rifle and looked over the mess that had once been the Grand Witch of a coven of harmless White Witches dwelling in Pennsylvania. "So much for magic and its advantages."_

 _She'd known what Alfred was the moment she set her sights on him and hesitated._

 _It was the hesitation that undid the poor crone. He wasn't the one she ought to have been watching._

 _Her followers had fled in terror at the unprecedented violence._

" _Kirkland," Harris ordered. "Fetch the book."_

 _Alfred nodded, swallowed, and carefully pried the now wet Gramarye from the Grand Witch's hold—trying his best to block out the sounds of Samuel being sick nearby._

" _Sir," he acknowledged as his sleeves grew damp and he tried not to tremble._

 _Harris would say it was stupid and impractical to fear for them who were obviously set against him._

 _This coven had done nothing to hurt him, true. But nothing to help either. That made them enemies too._

 _Apathy was dangerous._

 _Lots of things were._

 _And it gave him such fear._

 _He lived with a now constant terror that Harris would hurt his family members._

 _Because magic couldn't stop bullets and gunpowder._

 _That much was proven now._

 _And he felt a great urge to apologize._

 _For what he'd told thus far._

 _What he'd done._

 _What might be coming._

 _And maybe he could beg guidance from Father on what to do next._

 _Because he was lost._

 _He was lost and_ _tired and afraid and he just wanted to gain this human's trust...so it could all just stop…_

 _It felt like the Salem Witch Trials all over again. Only instead of being accused for witchery he was being questioned for his loyalties._

 _The flames in the office's fireplace looked absolutely wicked._

 _And he wondered with a dull sort of dread how much worse burning a witch was rather than hanging one._

" _How?! How can I or any officer… ANY citizen depend on you, when you wear THIS around your neck!" He grabbed the locket and pulled so hard the chain snapped._

 _His neck stung. Contrary, to whatever humans seemed to think. Nations very much felt the same twinges of pain they did. He clamped a hand on the spot and winced at the rapidly forming bruise._

" _I did not say 'at ease,' Lieutenant. Return to attention-"_

 _Alfred glared. He didn't care! And said so and received a vicious backhand and a curse of "blatant insubordination." Another officer wrote the offense down._

 _Ridiculous. How dare he be treated thus!? Anger wore away fear and caution._

" _Tell me why you wear this? Now! Speak!"_

 _It was a locket with portraits of Arthur and Mathieu._

" _They are my family," he spat. Incredulous that he was even being subjected to this. "Mathieu, my brother, and...my father."_

 _He was the embodiment of the nation! That his loyalties could even be questioned was the pinnacle of absurdity._

" _Delusions," the man muttered and shook his head contemptuously. "Lieutenant. All delusions. Lies that you tell yourself to give an illusion of normalcy which you, by the essence of your existence, have no right to shelter in. Come now, United States, accept this. For your own sake. For ours."_

 _Alfred bristled. So it was this again. He gritted his teeth and hissed, "My name is Alfred-"_

" _You're the United States of America. You_ _ **don't**_ _have a family. You_ _ **don't**_ _have a real name. What you have...is a responsibility." He paced in front of Alfred, a hard military clip in the sound of the footfalls. "And by Heaven or Hell, I will see that you live up to it. Now, tell me why you have betrayed us?" He shook the locket._

" _I haven't the slightest idea of what you're going on about."_

" _No? What about this then?" Harris pulled out an envelope from a folder on a desk behind him. "Well, Lieutenant?"_

 _Alfred's mouth went dry as he looked on an opened envelope penned in his own hand from himself to his father._

" _Well?"_

" _..."_

" _Shall I read a line or two to refresh your memory? Yes, I think I will. 'My dearest, first, and foremost founding Father.'" Harris then broke off in an aside, "Quite a mouthful, Lieutenant." He took in another breath and read off in an affected voice, "'I write to you in desperation. If you can no longer look on me with affection or pity, than I must depend on your sense of honor. I beseech you, hear me out. Meet me in the meadow where first we-'"_

" _I remember all too well," Alfred forced out. "There's no need for this spectacle."_

 _The man gave him a sneering smile. "A shame. It deserves an audience. You might've made a fair playwright, Lieutenant. You have a gift for grandiosity and farce. I was most entertained."_

" _..."_

" _I think you'll find it far easier to confess before me than a jury, Lieutenant. I don't think a jury would be near as compassionate of your crimes, fraternizing with the enemy during wartime. Directly. To England himself no doubt."_

 _Alfred watched despondently as his letter, his only real hope of guidance out of this...this mess, was tossed into the fire._

 _His "treason" landed him in the gaol and earned him weeks of deplorable conditions and the ever constant threat of hearing passages of Malleus Maleficarum and the Bible. Harris delighted in reading them to him._

 _An ashen faced Alfred peered through the iron grate of the public gaol. His hands jangled with heavy manacles as he made to grab the bars._

" _Mercy," the American demanded hoarsely. He had a spitty, rattling cough and weight in his lungs._

" _A French word," Harris commented as he turned a page. "Bit unpatriotic, I think. Trying to annoy me, are we?"_

 _The roof of the gaol was leaking from the summer storm and his pitiful reflection stared up at him._

 _Treason…_

 _Insubordination…_

 _They were words that never should have been associated with him._

 _The stones under his bare feet were cold. The iron yoke they had fashioned for him was even colder._

' _Forged from the remnant of an anchor,' his guards liked telling each other that as they stood watch._

 _The damnable weight of it made it impossible to stand straight and the smell of brine made him heartsick._

 _Alfred licked his dry lips and tried to force strength into his hoarse voice. "My father will have your head for this."_

 _"Must we do this again? Let's not play pretend. America, you don't have a father. You never did. You. Are. A. Thing. Like a rock or a plant… A thing. You have no family."_

 _"England-"_

 _"Better. England. What of England?"_

 _"He'll thrash you for-"_

 _"He won't."_

 _Alfred went hot with rage. Maybe the young nation wasn't much of a foe, he was too inexperienced, but his father…_

 _His father was an admiral! A warrior! A sorcerer!_

 _"You. Are. A. Fool to disregard his wrath," he hissed._

 _"His wrath? You actually think you could rouse his sympathies? You?" Harris's teeth glinted in the torchlight outside Alfred's cell. "O America, he'd think you were right where you belong. Where all traitors belong."_

 _"...You're wrong."_

 _But he felt less certain than he had a moment ago. And the iron got heavier as his shoulders sagged._

 _And the man laughed._

 _It was strange to be defeated that way._

 _No forceful blow._

 _He'd always known words to have curious powers over man and nation._

 _But to be brought down by a sound..._

* * *

" _ **United States of America…**_ _"_

 _The iron yoke was engraved with every name he'd ever held and it was so heavy and worse…it burned and blistered everywhere it met flesh._

" _ **Thirteen Colonies of British America**_ _…"_

 _Alfred hissed as each colony and state was read out._

 _He had to commend him; Harris was thorough in his readings of the Hammer of the Witches and other materials meant for witch hunting. Alfred was subdued—the stones of his cell were cold under his cheek and he was so…tired…_

 _He wondered idly if anyone had bothered to feed the animals at his homestead._

 _Americat, he knew, would survive._

 _Always._

 _He sighed as sermons circled and bounced about his skull:_ _"_ _A man also or woman that hath a familiar spirit, or that is a wizard, shall surely be put to death."_

 _The world grew more intangible by the hour as illness ravaged him and the harsh smell of salt drew out delusions of other scents like the homey smells of linen and wool and cologne._

 _He fell into different memories of softness and warmth that seemed as ethereal now as ballads of Avalon…where he_ _ran through tall meadow grasses, green and dewy underfoot, his heart bursting with gladness…_

 _He pushed through flowering patches with a squeal as his name was called again._

 _But the dearest one would always be…"_ _ **Alfred…**_ _"_

 _His eyebrow twitched as it was said by the wrong voice and his body jerked as he was commanded by laws from planes of the arcane. "_ _ **Faer…**_ _"_

 _His chest burned as breath couldn't come quick enough._

 _Because having a name was beautiful. And this one was chosen special. Just for him._

 _And he didn't want it ruined._

 _"…_ _ **Kirkland**_ _…"_

 _Flowers could have lots of names, but there was a Swedish man, whom Father had mentioned, that created special names for organisms. A name that would be THE name of whatever something was to whomever was beholding it, wherever in the world they happened to be._

"… _ **Popham…Sagadahoc…**_ _"_

 _Having a human name was kind of like that._

 _Because he'd never had one before._

" _ **Dyami**_ _…"_

 _Or at least not one that humans used._

 _Osha could never get her tribespeople to call him Dyami…and so it never seemed quite right…even when other tribe nations deigned to call him by it. Because they were doing it out of deference to her…and not him._

 _"_ _ **Tell...me…Alfred…"**_

 _He rushed into a pair of open arms that swung him high in the air before pulling him in close. Even as the warning echoed relentlessly:_ _"No sadness is greater than in misery to rehearse memories of joy…"_

 _And that sadness was a vulnerability._

 _The joy and hope was worse._

" _ **Tell…me…"**_

 _And it was the strangest and most blasphemous wish to half-hope this measly village would be conquered just so he'd see green eyes again._

 _The weakness of the desire cost him._

"… _ **Roanoke.**_ _"_

 _And it slipped._

 _The time his magic was most powerful: May Day._

 _And if Bertram Harris contracted with him then…during the Witching Hour…of May Day._

 _They could replenish Alfred's failing magic...with a single wish._

* * *

 _Read & Review Please :DDD_


End file.
